


Between a Rock and a Hard Place

by OBFreak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 114,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBFreak/pseuds/OBFreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our favourite heroes get more than they bargained for, when an ordinary crime scene turns into something much more sinister. What starts as a normal murder case, ends up becoming a race against time, and a fight between life and death.<br/>A very brief summary I know, but I don't want to give too much away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not, own Sherlock , it belongs to the BBC and the magnificent Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original Sherlock Holmes is of course a creation of the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All credit must go to them for the characters. Even though they don't belong to me, I still like to take them out and play with them once in a while… problem is, I don't always play nice…  
> I don't have a beta, so apologies for any mistakes.

He sits on a cold metal chair, arms twisted and tied awkwardly behind his back. The latest blow to the head has made his vision blur slightly and he does what he can to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes.  
"TELL ME!"  
He can see that the man before him is quickly losing patience. He keeps his head down, doing what little he can to protect himself, as another round of punches connects with his face and chest. Despite all this, the battered figure remains silent.  
"You're really starting to piss me off!"  
He hears a slight scrape of metal, as his captor once again picks up the electric baton from the floor. He hears the crackle of electricity and tries to quickly force all the thoughts from his mind. He knows what is about to happen, and while being mentally absent from his body doesn't stop the pain, it does help. His thoughts are so far away; he doesn't even notice the heavy door open and the second man walk in.  
"Getting anywhere?"  
"Not a thing!" He can hear the anger clearly in the younger man's voice and just a little bit of fear. "He's not even talking anymore, hasn't said a single thing in over two bloody hours!"  
The second man turns to face him, and he gets his first look at this new adversary. Mid 30's, tall, dark hair, wears an expensive suit and holds his head up high. This must be the one in charge, the man responsible for him being in this god forsaken hell hole. He is the one who is also likely to blame for the two bodies found earlier…

"You don't want to talk? That's ok; we'll just have to move on to plan B." The suited man says, before turning his attention towards his tormentor. "Give me ten minutes to set up, and then bring him down to the storage room."  
The young man turns to his superior with a slight look of regret and gives a curt nod. The suited man loosens his tie and begins to walk away from the bruised and bleeding form, but then stops momentarily to consider his young associate.  
"Don't worry Jatz, it'll be fun. In the meantime, feel free take out some of your frustrations on our friend here."  
The two men share a quick look, before the elder turns swiftly and exits the room. The door slams loudly behind him.  
Jatz slowly turns to his prisoner once more, the baton in his hand now fully charged.  
"With pleasure."


	2. First Response

**8 Hours Earlier**  
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exited their taxi and started to walk the few steps towards the Skyridge Hotel. It was a cool night, and the detective was already in a mood. The trip had taken exactly six minutes longer than necessary because the driver had refused to follow his instructions. Sherlock had been prepared to make a scene, however one glare from John and the issue was dropped. The driver had continued on quite happily, having no idea about the metaphorical bullet he had just dodged.  
The hotel itself was quite empty. It was an older establishment in the city centre, small and outdated. Only ten doors spanned down the dimly lit corridor towards the end room, now cordoned off by police tape. They had received a phone call from DI Lestrade no more than half an hour ago, asking for their assistance in a double homicide. Sherlock had jumped at the chance and John had happily followed.  
"Thanks for coming guys. The first victim is Tony Roberts, according to his ID. A 28 year old Software Designer from Leeds… must be down for work. Single gunshot wound to the lower abdomen, looks like he bled out," Lestrade said, in way of greeting.  
The room itself was relatively small and only very basic. Two single beds, a small table with one chair, TV and a small bar fridge. The kind of accommodation reserved for people with a small budget and an even smaller itinerary.  
"We don't have anything on the second vic yet, but it looks like cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head."  
The two men entered the room cautiously, watching their feet as to avoid the large pool of blood spread out over the ancient looking carpet. The patch appeared to be emanating from the first victim, and extended out in a number of different directions. All signs pointed to the fact that it had been a slow and painful death.

The first victim, Tony Roberts, was lying face down just inside the room. His head was situated towards the doorway, almost as if he had been trying to crawl for help. He was a fairly tall man; well-groomed and dressed in a pair of blue jeans, with a white shirt and black jacket. A few meters further into the room, lay a second body with a visible gunshot wound to the head. He was younger than Roberts, only in his early 20's and he looked as if he'd seen some hard times. His clothes seemed as if they were in need of a good laundering and all appeared slightly too big on the man's small frame. This victim was lying on his back, gun in hand, wearing cargo pants and a dark grey Hoodie. Despite the bloody mess in front of them, John couldn't help but notice the lack of police presence one would normally expect to find at a double homicide crime scene.  
"The room was booked under Roberts's name five days ago for two weeks” Lestrade informed them. “A young lad a few doors down heard gunshots and called it in just after 10."   
"So they shot each other?" asked John quickly.  
"It would appear that way. We were hoping you would be able to help shed some light on who the second victim is. The department is stretched a bit thin at the moment thanks to that set back in the Marshall case. The Chief Superintendent is all over us, so any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated. Oh and before I forget, we also found this…"  
Lestrade handed Sherlock a small piece of paper. It had been ripped from a larger note pad and was covered in blood. The message on the paper had obviously been written in a hurry. It was short, but in no way simple. It read:   
TL Esc rprt 2ho head SUT  
"Interesting… Where did you find it?" Sherlock asked, glancing around the small room again.  
"The inside jacket pocket of Mr Roberts over there," the inspector replied, pointing over to the dead man in question. "Listen, I can give you pretty much as long as you like, the Crime Scene Unit won't be here for a few hours yet, so take your time." Lestrade finished with a small smile.  
Handing back the note, Sherlock slowly made his way through the small hotel room, taking a mental note of the small suitcase in between the two beds; the small bullet hole in the wall near the door and the contents of the waste bin by the table. Making his way up to the younger of the two victims, Sherlock squatted down carefully by his side, as if trying not to get too close. "What did you find on the body?" he asked curiously.  
"Just an old mobile phone. Not many contacts, but we'll send it off to have it analysed. Hopefully it may give us some indication as to what he was doing here in the first place."  
Sherlock stood up with a sigh, as John ducked down to take his place.  
"He remind you of anyone Lestrade?" Sherlock mumbled quietly.  
"Well, yeah… I didn't really want to say anything though."  
"What do you mean?" came John's voice from his position on the floor. Sherlock turned his gaze back to the body and started pointing out his various observations.  
"This victim is clearly a long term drug user. Dishevelled, thin and unclean. He has no personal property other than a phone and a gun, which I am guessing he was given prior to coming here. If you pull up his sleeve John, you will no doubt find the proof you need."  
John reached forward slightly, pushing the worn jumper up the young man's arm. He noticed almost immediately the vast array of small puncture wounds littering his arm. Some were old and healed over, others painfully new.  
"Let me guess, three shots fired?" Sherlock asked, turning once more to the DI, who gave him a quick nod of confirmation. "Hmm, just what I thought. This wasn't a professional hit, his aim was too poor. More likely it was an opportunity to clear a debt. As for this one…"  
The detective turned to consider the second body, stepping slowly around the pool of blood for a closer look. The man paused for a moment, a slightly confused look on his face.  
"You said he was a software designer correct?"  
"Yeah, that's right. His work ID was in his wallet."  
"Anything else found on the body other than that note?"  
"Just a few coins and the hotel room key."  
Sherlock positioned himself at the man's head and bent over to get a closer look. "No," he mumbled quietly to himself.  
"I'm sorry, what?" Lestrade asked.  
"No, that's not right."  
"What do you mean?"  
"This man, he's not a software designer."  
"How do you know that?"  
Sherlock shot Lestrade an annoyed look. "Are you really so blind? The evidence is blatantly obvious."  
"Enlighten me."  
"Look at his hands,” the detective said in annoyance. “They’re rough with a number of calluses, which means that he uses them frequently and not for typing. Or how about his clothes? Not exactly the look you would be going for if you're in town for work, and do I really need to point out that he has no computer? Or phone? What kind of computer software designer travels without a computer or phone?" Sherlock asked, clearly frustrated, before demanding to see the contents of the man's wallet. "Honestly. It's like all your brains are powered by little mice running on wheels. Ah, just as I thought… They're fake, all forgeries"  
"Really?" Lestrade asked with a hint of scepticism.  
"Very good forgeries, I'll give you that. Professional job. This 'Tony Robert's isn't who he appears to be. Probably isn't even his real name."  
"So..? This is all just down to drugs then?" John asked, standing up to meet them.  
"No I don't think so, there is more to it than that. For instance what happened to the other person who was staying here?"  
"Wait, what makes you think there was a second person staying here? The room wasn't booked for two people."   
Sherlock made a pained sigh. "The number of take away containers in the waste basket, enough for two people."  
"Maybe he just had company. You don't think this other guy..."  
"No of course not! Pay attention Lestrade! Clothes around the room, a different size to either of the two victims and then there's the note… Oh!"  
"What?" the other two men asked at precisely the same time.  
"Ohhhh this is getting interesting."  
"Sherlock," John said with a warning tone.  
"This is drug related, but not in the way that you think. It's much bigger than that." He walked over to the younger victim and lifted the left leg of his pants up to reveal a small symbol just above the ankle on his left leg. "This is the work of the 'Scarlet Rose'," he announced with a small smile.  
Lestrade took a few steps closer to get a better look. "What, the crime syndicate?"  
"Exactly! I think you'll find that Mr Robert's over there is actually…"

Sounds of sudden and frantic yelling came blasting into the room from the hotel lobby, cutting his sentence short.  
"What the hell?" Lestrade asked quietly and to no one in particular. He walked over to the door and peered outside into the now empty corridor. "You two stay here," he said glancing back at them.  
"Wait!"  
"Sherlock, I have to go find out what's going on out there! I'll be back in a minute."  
"I'll come with you, watch your back," John said with a small smile, pulling his service revolver out from its hiding spot.  
"I wish you wouldn't take that thing out in public," Lestrade grumbled.  
"Well I wish they'd just issue you with a gun," John said in reply, as the two made their way to leave.  
"No wait! Can you hear that?" Sherlock's voice sounded urgent and it was enough to make the other two stop in their tracks.  
"Hear what?"  
Without warning, the window behind them shattered and a hand appeared, throwing a couple of small metal cylinders into the room.  
"That…"  
Before they could even blink, there was a large noise and a blinding white flash. Everything went black as the three of them fell into darkness.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Plop_   
_Plop_

He groaned quietly as he slowly swam in and out of consciousness. His head was throbbing and his whole body felt heavy, like it was made of lead. The bliss of oblivion called to him and he wanted nothing more than to let go and give in to the darkness; it would be the easiest thing in the world to do, but a small voice told him to. Told him to hang on to what little reality he could.

_Plop_

He felt cold, and the pounding in his head was making him feel nauseous. He tried to take a couple of deep breathes but found the air around him both thick and stale. He could feel himself slipping again, so he focused his attention on the dripping sound coming from somewhere nearby.

_Plop_   
_Plop_

The sound was reassuring somehow; it acted like an anchor and kept his mind clear of the fog. He could feel a heavy layer of fabric covering his head and face, and soon realised that he was likely blindfolded. He was almost glad; it made the task of opening his eyes unnecessary and he really didn't feel like opening them right now.

_Plop_

He briefly considered the fact that he should be panicking by now, but the stale air and the pain in his head was making it hard to concentrate. Thinking was becoming difficult, so he pushed aside all thoughts and went back to listening to the falling water. He would deal with the other problems later.

_Plop_   
_Plop_

The unexpected sound of a door slamming was enough to finally jerk him into some level of alertness. He instantly froze, as he listened to the new sound of footsteps moving towards him. His eye's snapped open beneath the cloth as they searched aimlessly for some clue as to what was going on.  
"Wakey wakey rise and shaky," a disturbing voice sang somewhere above his head. "You've been out for AAAAAGES!"  
He tried desperately to piece together what had happened. The last thing he could remember was being at a crime scene, but the details were still fuzzy. It was too dark, he couldn't see anything and it was making him feel uneasy. As if reading his mind, the unknown figure reached down and removed the black material covering his head.  
"How about that, he lives!" the man in front of him said with a truly creepy smile.

The man in front of him looked like your average 'gun-for-hire'. He was tall and strong, with tattooed arms; dark, greasy hair, with a couple of teeth missing and more than a few scars.  
He took the opportunity to look around the room; reasonably sized, but very bare, with a solid metal door. He couldn't help but think of one of the interrogation rooms at Scotland Yard, minus all the creature comforts like modern lighting and plumbing. The room was lit only by a single globe, which made the man currently looking down at him, appear even more disturbing. He glanced over to the nearest corner, where he could see a bucket collecting the dripping water from a small hole in the ceiling. He tried to focus on the sound again.

_Plop_

"Have a nice nap?"  
He noticed for the first time, that both of his arms had been pulled and handcuffed tightly behind his back. Almost instantly, they began to ache in protest at the unnatural position they had been forced into. This would have made most people fearful; however, it just made him angry. The realisation that his own handcuffs were now being used to hold him captive was enough to finally provoke a response.  
"Look, I don't know what's going on here, but you should know that I'm an officer of the law…"  
"Yeah I know!" the man said excitingly, cutting him off.  
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade…" he continued, holding up Lestrade's wallet and ID. "Now doesn't that just sound impressive? Bit of a mouthful if ye ask me. Me and me mates just call you lot 'Pigs'… Rolls of the tongue easier."  
"Well since you know so much about me, how about you give me your name?"  
"Alright then… Frank."  
"Is that your real name?" Frank responded by giving him a slow, smug smile.  
"Well it was worth a try,” Lestrade muttered dejectedly, his confidence slipping. “What exactly do you want?"   
"Me? I don't want nothing, I'm just doin' a job. My employer on the other hand… Well he wants some information," Frank said casually, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite the Inspector.  
"What kind of information?"  
"About that crime scene you was at just before," Frank replied.  
"What about it?"  
"What do know about Alex Walters?" Frank asked leaning forward, suddenly serious.  
"Who?"  
Frank leaned back again, with a smile. "Wrong answer."  
The punch which followed caught him off guard and he was left stunned for a moment, the left side of his face aching.  
"We'll try that again."

Lestrade had just enough time to think about how much trouble he was in, before another fist connected with his stomach. He tried to clear his mind and focus once more on the steady dripping sound but found that it no longer offered the same comfort. Earlier it had given him security and calm, but now it just mocked him. The noise grated on his nerves and he knew that there was not a single thing he could do about it. Much like the situation he now found himself in.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**7 Hours Earlier**  
Sally Donovan was on her way back to the station after interviewing a particularly uncooperative witness to a home invasion, which had resulted in the death of a teenage boy. Apparently it was well known around the community that the boy had several ties to a number of nasty street gangs, so the neighbours were keeping very tight lipped on the matter. It was frustrating, but understandable; no one wanted to draw a target on themselves.

Things had been chaotic at the Yard over the last few days and it was starting to wear her down. Sally wanted nothing more than to go home and get some well-earned sleep, but she pushed that though aside when she received a call from dispatch directing her to the Skyridge Hotel.  
"There arereports that there may have been some kind of explosion. Officers are already at the scene on an unrelated case but we have not been able to establish contact with them."  
"Copy that, on my way. ETA 10 minutes."  
Sally took the first right, flicking her lights and sirens on as she went. If her foot pressed a little too far down on the accelerator, she didn't notice.


	3. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know very little about the British police and how they do things. Don't be alarmed though, because what I do 'know' I've learnt from TV shows and movies so it must be pretty accurate… right? Apologies if I am way off. The same is said for locations around London. I have only been there a few times, so I am not too familiar with the place (Thank God for creative licensing).

**7 Hours Earlier**  
When Sally finally arrived at the scene, she was confronted by a number of emergency personal who appeared to be doing very little. It was clear from the hurried conversations going on around her, that no one really knew what was going on or what to do. She looked over and watched, as a young couple came stumbling out of the lobby area, coughing and gasping for breath. It was only then that she noticed the thick smoke billowing out of the building in front of her. Wondering briefly how on earth she could have missed it, her attention was quickly directed to the sound of a very angry DI Dimmock yelling into his car radio.  
"This is ridiculous! We've been on scene now for well over 10 minutes, where the HELL are they?!"  
Donovan, somewhat reluctantly, made her way over towards him, seeing the stressed look on his face.  
"That's what you said five minutes ago!"  
Unfortunately Sally was unable to clearly hear the reply from dispatch, but whatever was said, it did not go down well. Dimmock rattled off a short string of obscenities before throwing the radio onto the passenger seat and slamming the car door. It was done with so much force, she thought for a moment he may had broken it.  
"Donovan," the man said simply.  
"Sir," Sally replied cautiously, "has everyone been accounted for?"  
"Not at this stage. We have yet to make contact with one of our officers and we can't be sure of how many people were in the building at the time of the explosion. We're still waiting on the Fire Department; we can't get in there yet. The hotel manager and two of our officers were found unconscious just inside the hotel lobby, they're being treated as we speak."  
Sally looked over in the direction he was pointing and saw three very still figures lying on the ground surrounded by Ambulance officers.  
"Hopefully we'll know more when they wake up," Dimmock continued. "God where are those useless trucks?! If they take much longer, there will be nothing left to save!"  
Donovan nodded her understanding and turned back in the direction of where the medical personal were now loading a young police constable into the back of an Ambulance. Other than the fact that he was clearly unconscious, he appeared uninjured.

Sally became aware of the distant sound of sirens and could not help but share the DI's visible sigh of relief.  
"About bloody time," the man grumbled under his breath.  
Eventually two fire engines pulled up to the scene and she watched in fascination, as a number of fire fighters jumped out of their rigs, grabbed their equipment and ran towards the smoking building. Where most would instinctively run from fire, they happily ran towards it. Their bravery and dedication towards their job was something Sally had always admired. She just hoped that they had arrived in time and that there was no one still trapped inside. With that thought, a chill shot down her spine.  
"Sir? Who's the officer still unaccounted for?"  
Dimmock's body stiffened and he remained silent for a minute, as if thinking carefully about how to respond. There was something odd about his behaviour. He seemed anxious, an emotion not often associated with the usually arrogant man. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before responding.  
"Lestrade," he said grimly. "He was leading the original homicide investigation. No one has seen him."  
Sally felt her stomach drop.  
"Are you saying that he's still in there?!"  
Dimmock didn't reply but his face had paled considerably. The pair looked at each other for a while, before wordlessly turning towards the now visibly burning building. There was nothing either of them could do but wait and pray.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Another fist connected with his jaw, and this time he let himself slump further down into the chair. He was finding it difficult to keep his head upright, so he no longer tried, letting it simply roll to the side.  
"Tell me what I wanna to know and I'll stop."  
"I've already told you, I don't know any Alex Walters!"  
His head was still pounding, but he suspected that it had more to do with the punches to his face, than the after effects of the flash grenades. His mind was a lot clearer now, which was fortunate because he got the distinct impression that he would need his wits about him, if he was ever going to get out of there.   
"Ok fine… then, what do you know about that other copper?"  
"Wh… what copper?" Frank’s answer was in the form of another powerful knock to the stomach, temporary winding him.   
“What copper?!"  
"The one at the crime scene you knob."  
"Wh…What?" Lestrade was beyond confused. It was as if Frank was speaking another language. Nothing he was saying was making any sense. "I don’t understand, the only police officer at the crime scene was me."  
Technically speaking this was true. The two constables were supposedly securing the perimeter of the building and as such were not really at the crime scene itself; and as for Sherlock and John, well they aren't even…  
'Sherlock and John!'  
He couldn't believe that he hadn't thought of them until now. John had been standing right beside him when the flash grenade went off and Sherlock was further inside the room. There was no way they could have avoided the blast. He wondered briefly what could have happened to them, before he was distracted by another punch, this time to the ribs.  
"Cut the act, I'm talkin' bout the dead one!"  
"Wait, what?"  
"This is gettin' really old". The frustration in Frank was clearly evident now.  
"Please… I really don't know what you're talking about."  
"Oh come on, you expect me to believe that?! A Scotland Yard Detective knowing nothing 'bout the crime scene he was at."  
"I wasn't exactly there for long before you abducted me!" Lestrade replied before spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor.  
"Well what do you know?!" Frank all but yelled.  
The two men glared at each other, their hatred for one another growing with every passing second.  
"Ok… ok, fine…" Lestrade started. "I'll tell you what I know, if you tell me what happened to the two men I was with."  
"Ooooh" Frank said with a laugh. "Don't think ya really in any position to be making demands right now there piggy."  
It was clear that Frank was finding this all, far too amusing. The brutal man paced around the small room, as if trying to decide his next course of action. Decision made, Frank turned back towards the Inspector, all signs of humour now gone from his face.  
"Alright then… I got no idea. You're the only one they brought in; you're the only one I seen."  
Lestrade could not contain the huge sigh of relief which followed this new revelation. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought after all. It stood to reason that he would be the only one targeted. He was after all the only officer on scene. They would have assumed that he had all the necessary information regarding the case and they would have had no reason to grab the others, particularly if they had no knowledge of who they were. 

Lestrade had a new reason to be optimistic. If Sherlock was out there, he would be looking for him and God help anyone who stood in his way. There was still hope for him yet, he just had to hang on long enough for someone to find him. It was in this moment that Greg Lestrade decided that he would do whatever it took to keep himself alive, and at that particular moment in time, that meant saying very little. He had to buy himself some time, and they wouldn't kill him if they thought he still had useful information.  
"Well, I kept up my end of the bargain, so now it's your turn."  
Lestrade, remained silent. He sat up in his chair, straightening his back then raising his chin up in defiance.   
Frank stood in front of Lestrade with an annoyed smile on his face. "So you wanna play it like that huh? Have to admit, I was kinda hoping you would."  
Frank slowly pulled a switchblade knife from his back pocket and twisted it back and forth dramatically for Greg to see. The Inspector could do very little other than close his eyes and pray that Sherlock and the others would find him soon.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**4 Hours Earlier**  
It had taken time for the fire department to finally get the flames under control. Sally had spent the first twenty minutes frantically trying to reach Lestrade on his phone but deep down she knew that her efforts were futile. There was no way Lestrade would break protocol and leave a crime scene to go down to the shops, or visit the loo; at least not without informing anyone first. This meant that he was in the building when the explosion went off and when the fire started. Sally knew all this but chose to ring anyway; it was just easier than doing nothing. She tried his work number first, but it went straight through to message bank. Next she tried his office phone, but that eventually rang out too. She then tried his home number with the same results, before ringing his mobile again. This sequence went on for several minutes and resulted in more than a few nasty voice messages. She told herself not to panic, that it could mean a number of different things; but as the minutes ticked by, she eventually conceded. She stood for a short time, watching the flames lick the side of the building before even that became too much. She had then gone in search of Lestrade's car, hoping to find some evidence of what may have happened, or maybe even find the man himself… She came back to the scene 20 minutes later with neither. 

The next two hours had been pure torture as she watched the flames slowly die down and the smoke clear away. There had still been no contact from the hospital as to who else they could expect to find in the now burnt out building, and she found herself almost sick to the stomach with the thought of what they would discover. After more agonizing minutes, Dimmock and Donovan were eventually joined by the Fire Chief, who looked at them both forlornly.   
"Fire's finally out. My guys say you're going to need to get a coroner and a crime scene unit out here, they found bodies…"  
At that moment it took all of Sally Donovan's will and focus not to throw up all over the man's shoes.

After it was clear that nothing further could be done at the hotel, DI Dimmock had sent her and another officer to the hospital. Officially she was there to 'gather statements from the three witnesses when they woke up'. Unofficially, she was there because Dimmock was worried about her. Sally had been there for less than 5 minutes, when she was notified by hospital staff that Constable Raimes had finally regained consciousness. It was with some trepidation that she made her way towards the small room to meet with him. She didn’t really know what to expect when she walked into the room, but was glad to see that the officer wasn't looking too bad, all things considered. There was a large gash to the side of his head, but other than that the man looked unhurt.  
"Hello Constable, how are you feeling?" Sally asked.  
"Like I've just been hit over the head with a cricket bat," the man replied groggily. "How's Collins?"  
"He's still unconscious, but the doctors are confident that he'll make a full recovery."  
The young officer slumped back into his pillow nodding, a look of relief washing over his face.  
"That's good."  
"Listen I hate to do this to you now, but I need to ask you a few questions."  
"Sure," he all but whispered.  
"Can you tell me what happened back at the hotel?"  
"My partner Collins and I responded to a shots fired, shortly after 10pm. It was quickly determined that there was no indication of any further danger. The two of us were asked to stay and secure the scene until the detectives and crime scene units had finished up."  
"Do you think you could just skip to part about how you ended up like this?"  
Sally didn't mean to sound heartless and uninterested but she needed to know about the explosion and the whereabouts of Lestrade as soon as possible.  
"Well Collins was stationed by the lobby door while I was further around the corner, keeping an eye on the passage way. I was listening to Collins talking to the manager of the place and then it went silent. Collins quietly radioed me asking for some assistance, so I wandered out there. Next thing I know, all hell was breaking loose. Three guys just appeared out of nowhere, waving guns all around the place, yelling at us to get down. I remember Collins trying to call for backup but one of the guys ran up behind him and hit him in the back of the head. I tried to get back into the hallway to warn DI Lestrade, and then next thing I know, I'm waking up here."  
"So you didn't see or hear any explosion?"  
"No sorry."  
"Could you describe the men for me?"  
"Not really… They were all average height, wearing dark clothes and balaclavas. Collins might be able to tell you more when he wakes up."  
Sally felt her heart sink; they still had absolutely nothing to go on.  
"DI Lestrade was at the scene with you, did you see him exit the building at all?" Sally held her breath.  
"No, he was still in there, last I saw. Why is that? Isn't he here?"  
"We haven't been able to locate him yet," Sally replied quietly. "Fire Fighters are searching the ruins as we speak."  
Constable Raimes looked down at his bed sheets, his face now even paler.  
"We'll keep you informed on the search if you like?"  
"Yeah thanks," he said in a whisper. The two officers shared a few awkward seconds of silence before Sally made the customary 'get well soon' and turned to leave.  
"Sergeant? What about the other two men? Did they make it out?"  
Sally stopped dead in her tracks.  
"What other two men?"  
"The two men that came to see the DI."  
Sally felt a shiver travel up her spine. "Let me guess - tall, dark curly hair, long coat, walked around like he owned the place. The other one would have been following him around, short with blond hair?"  
"Yeah that's them. Did they make it out ok?"  
Sally simply stared at the Constable for a moment, before turning and marching back out towards the hospital entrance. With a further feeling of dread, she took out her mobile and rang Detector Inspector Dimmock, who answered on the second ring.  
"No news yet Donnovan, I told you I would let you know the second I found out anything."  
"No sir, it's not that. I've got some bad news. It looks like we're got at least two more people unaccounted for at the hotel."  
"Who?" he asked in alarm. She took a deep breath before continuing.  
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

His chin rested on his chest as he sagged more and more into the chair. The cut on his forehead was still dripping, adding more of the sticky liquid to the already dried patches on his face. His left eye had swollen considerably and he now had a slight metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Needless to say, the last ten minutes of his interrogation had not been particularly pleasant. His tormentor had left a few minutes ago, and his body was enjoying the unexpected reprieve. Head aching and his ears ringing, he took the break in questioning as an opportunity to try and clear his nose. Breathing in heavily, he could feel the blood gather in the back of his throat, before spitting a mouthful of the liquid out onto the floor. Although it wasn't an ideal thing to do, he did succeed in clearing his airways enough to comfortably breath again.

He took a moment to look around the room for an escape route, but found that he couldn't focus on anything for more than a few seconds before the room would spin. He gave up on that idea pretty quickly and instead chose to try and relieve some of the pressure on his aching arms. Despite setting out to remain tight lipped about the whole situation, it hadn't taken him long before he had started to cough up information. The problem was that he didn't really know anything. Sherlock had never got around to explaining what he had seen, and there was no way he was going to drag his friend into this too. He only knew what he himself had deducted while on the scene - which was not a lot. It was also clear that his captor thought he was still hiding something. In between recounts of his time at the crime scene, he had been assaulted with flying fists and the occasionally random slice of a knife. He would then be asked what he knew, before the whole routine would start over again. It was shortly after he had started retelling his version of events for the fourth time that the barrage of questions and onslaught of violence suddenly stopped. His tormentor had taken a step back, eyes narrowed in contemplation before he simply walked out of the room, the door slamming behind him. 

It had not taken him long to realise that things were only going to get worse. When the fist throwing psychopath returned, he would be expected to give more answers, answers that he didn’t have. This thought troubled him greatly, as he listened to the sound of distant footsteps grow louder.  
'Looks like it's time for round two', he thought numbly to himself as the heavy door to the room opened, revealing not one man, but two.   
The first, he had expected. The cold, distant eyes of his interrogator sent a chill down his spine as he turned his attention towards the second figure who had slipped silently into the room. This new man was slightly younger than the first and wore a rather expensive looking suit. He stared at this new figure for a moment, trying to figure out why he was there, before his attention was drawn back to the crazy man now waving a knife.  
"How about we start from the beginning for my friend here?" his captor said with a disturbing smile.  
He sighed tiredly, and thought back to when he had first set foot inside the crime scene earlier that night. It already seemed like it was weeks ago.  
"There were two bodies at the scene. One was about 30 and had bled out from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The other looked like he was in his early twenties and had been shot in the head. Death would have been immediate. He appeared to have been a long term drug user and the condition of his clothing…"  
"Yeah we don't care about the kid, what else do you know?"  
He was momentary dumbstruck by the man's cold bluntness, but continued anyway.  
"Um… The older guys name was um… Tony… Tony Roberts. His ID said he was a Software Designer from out of town."  
"Where out of town?"  
"Leeds."  
"Who was he really?"  
"I… I don't know what you mean… His ID said his name was Tony Roberts and that he was a Software Designer from Leeds… I swear that's all I know."  
He had a brief recollection of Sherlock not being convinced of the dead man's true identity, but the detective hadn't had time to explain his theory before they were attacked.  
His tormentor, who he now referred to as 'the Crazy Psycho Bastard', turned and looked at the suited man standing by the door. The shadowy figure remained silent but slowly shook his head, the questions resumed.  
"What else? Any witnesses?"  
"No witnesses that I know of. Um… the guy didn't have a mobile phone on him, just a few coins and the hotel room key."  
"Did he leave a message?"  
"Not that I know of."  
Crazy Psycho Bastard, looked back at the shadowy figure again, who this time gave a slight nod. Psycho Bastard turned back to him with that grin he had come to know all too well. Twirling his knife, the man walked up and placed the tip of the blade against his left shoulder.  
"You wanna try that again?"  
"Not that I know of."  
He felt the blade start to twist and dig through his clothing and into the soft flesh. It took all of his remaining will power not to react.  
"I don't know about any message."  
"See, the problem is we know who this man was and we also know that he would have left a message for his people. Now we didn't find a message when we went to grab you, which means that you're lying."  
The blade dug deeper, tearing at the skin, causing a steady stream of blood to seep into his shirt and jacket.  
"I could do this all day." The crazed man, said with a sneer. "I wonder how hard it would be to cut through bone…"  
"Ok... You're right, there was a note. It was written on a small piece of paper but I can't remember what it said."  
"Try!" Psycho Bastard growled at him.  
"I don't know! It was just a bunch of random letters and numbers."  
The knife dug deeper, causing him to gasp.  
"I swear, I don't know. It didn't make any sense to me, so I didn't think it was important to remember."  
He could feel the blade tip, move slowly through the muscle, making his eyes water with pain.  
"Please," he gasped out, "stop".  
The man’s mouth twisted into a snarled grin as he twisted the knife some more, widening the already large hole in his shoulder. He yelled out in pain, which only seemed to encourage the psychopath further. His vision was starting to blur and he worried about what they would do to him, if he passed out in the middle of an interrogation.  
"Rusty."  
The voice had come from the shadowy figure in the corner and it had an immediate effect on the mad man in front of him. The look of pleasure disappeared from the psycho's face, as he removed the knife from the tattered shoulder and took a step back.  
"I believe him."  
His head dropped and he sighed with relief as the mysterious man addressed him.  
"Tell me, where is the note now?"  
"I… I don't know. It must still be with one of the other two men I was with. I keep telling you, you picked the wrong guy. I don't know anything! I'm not a cop!"  
"I understand. Thank you for your cooperation Doctor Watson."  
With that, the two men left the room, leaving John to wander what was going to happen next.


	4. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this story has already been written (I am just re-editing as I go along) so I will do my best to update fairly regularly.

Sherlock was quite annoyed by his current predicament; in fact he was downright pissed off. He knew that there had been something wrong at the hotel, but of course, as usual, John and Lestrade were both too slow to see it. He had been temporary deafened and blinded when the flash grenades went off, but thanks to their trajectory, he had fortunately avoided the worst of its effects. Even so, it was still enough for him to lose all sense of balance and he had fallen quite heavily into the floor. Four men had then climbed through the window and started to ransack the room, while another three appeared at the doorway. There was nothing his confused mind could really deduce about the figures; they were all wearing dark clothes and had their faces covered. One of these men, immediately pulled out a mobile phone and had made a call, while another had gone to check on Lestrade and John, who had both appeared to be either unconscious or deeply stunned. The final man had walked over to where he was lying and upon noticing that he was still awake, had forcefully turned him onto his stomach and pressed a knee into his lower back, effectively pinning him to the floor in his weakened state.

If the amount of yelling and sounds of smashing objects had been anything to go by, then the men were clearly not happy with what they had found. He had tried to focus on the phone conversation, but found that he couldn’t hear anything specific over the loud ringing in his ears. It was at this point in time, that he had felt a slight pinch to the back of his neck and his vision began to blur with whatever drug he had been injected with. He had then been manhandled, picked up between two large men and dragged out of the room. He could not remember seeing either John or Lestrade during this part of the ordeal, but he had trouble remembering much of anything after that. His vision had continued to blur and then darken, as he slowly lost his grip on the conscious world.

He had woken up some time later in the back of a large van, blindfolded with his hands tied firmly behind his back. He had a terrible headache, not helped by the bumpy road that they had been travelling on. He had felt a body of warmth to his left side and a number legs to his right, but had decided against investigating further, in favour of feigning unconsciousness and trying to gather more information on where he might be. For once, his former narcotic use seemed to have come in handy, as his tolerance level was obviously quite high (He had made a quick mental note, to rub that fact into Mycroft’s face when they next met). 

After only five minutes, the van had rolled to a stop and he heard movement all around him. He was grabbed by his coat and dragged up into a sitting position, before he was half carried, half dragged out of the vehicle and into a building. He still could not hear specific words or sentences; however he could tell that there were a number of people talking with raised voices. After a short break where he was almost dropped, the two men carrying him had walked a further 16 meters, taking two left turns and a right, before entering through a doorway and into a small room. He was then unceremoniously dumped onto a cold metal chair, before his hands had been momentarily relieved, then secured once again behind the seat’s backrest. He had slumped forward and slid downwards a little, continuing his act of unconsciousness. The two men had then left, slamming the heavy door behind them, leaving him alone with his thoughts. That had been several hours ago, and things had not improved since then.

The black material over his head had made it almost impossible to deduce anything about his immediate surroundings. Other than the fact that the van had been driving on an unsealed road for a short time, he knew very little about his location. He had no way of knowing how long they had travelled or in what direction. In short, he had absolutely no idea where he was. The ringing in his ears had gradually started to fade during the time he had been there; however this did not help to produce any more information. After what seemed like an hour, the door to the small room had suddenly opened, causing him to flinch ever so slightly. He had held his breath, hoping that whoever had entered hadn’t noticed his mistake.  
“I see you’re awake then” said a cold voice. He had heard footsteps move towards him, then felt the black cloth bag being removed from his face. For the first time, he had been able to get a look at the room he was in. It was quite small, bare with concrete walls and floor. The door looked and sounded quite heavy and apart from the chair he was sitting it, the room was otherwise empty. A single light globe hung from the ceiling, swinging ever so slightly, throwing menacing shadows all over the room.  
“How’re you feeling?”  
Sherlock had then turned his attention to the young man in front of him. He was only young, 24 perhaps. He was of average height, with dark blonde hair, quite attractive and well dressed. He didn’t look like your average criminal; in fact he looked like he had received a good upbringing. Why a young man like that would be caught up in drugs and kidnapping he didn’t know. Although it was an interesting notion, considering his own history. He had sighed deeply, “dull”.  
The younger man had given him a strange look, before laughing nervously.  
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?”  
Sherlock had remained silent and had continued to do so, despite his captors various ‘encouragements’ to do otherwise.  
This had gone on for an unspecified amount of time, and it was only now, almost five hours after the original abduction, that he found himself angry enough to finally talk.  
He was really not impressed, not impressed at all.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 **3 Hours Earlier**  
Sally Donovan was itching for something to do. It had been just over 20 minutes since she had informed DI Dimmock of the new developments and 19 minutes since she had been ordered to stay at the hospital. With the other two witnesses still unconscious, there was nothing more to do and it was driving her crazy. She thought about trying to contact either John or Sherlock, but realised she had never taken the time to get their numbers. After she had mentally berated herself for several minutes, Sally had managed to track down one of the hospitals phonebooks. It was 4.20am, when she had rung Mrs Hudson at 221 Baker Street and other than getting an earful of abuse about disturbing people at 4 o’clock in the morning; she found out no information on the whereabouts of her two tenants. She became so desperate for information, that she had even called Lestrade’s soon to be ex-wife, who despite being surprisingly concerned for the man, could offer no insight into his location.  
Sally had just started to consider the consequences of leaving the hospital, when she received the call she had been waiting for. She never imagined that hearing Dimmock’s voice could cause her so much joy.  
“Well the good news is that it doesn’t look like there were any fatalities due to the fire. Two bodies were discovered in the room where the fire originated, but the experts say that these were likely the two victims of the original homicide.” Sally felt as though a huge weight had been lifted and she could finally breathe again.  
“Any sign as to what happened to Lestrade or the others?”  
“No, that’s the bad news. The Fire Investigators won’t be able to make it out until the morning, but the guys from the Fire Department, suspect that a large amount of accelerant was used. They also reported no evidence of a blast, which contradicts several statements from people who said they heard an explosion. There is obviously something more to all of this; we just don’t know what it is yet. The fact that most of the evidence of the original case has been conveniently destroyed and the lead investigator has gone missing cannot be mere coincidence… I need you to track down all three’s next of kin and inform them of the situation. They may be able to shed some light on where they may have gone; if they left of their own free will that is.”  
“Sure thing,” Sally replied, happy that she finally had something constructive to do.  
“Keep me informed of any developments.”  
“Of course.” Sally took one last look around the waiting room, then turned and walked out the door, hoping she would not have to return to the building any time soon.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As another fist connected with his face, it took all of Sherlock’s will power not to react. He wanted nothing more than to swear obscenities at the man and ram his head into the wall, but he forced himself to refrain. He would not let this idiotic scumbag get the better of him.  
“What do you want?” Sherlock grounded out between his teeth, finally breaking the long silence.  
The young man had stopped mid swing; it had taken him a moment to register the detective’s low voice. The captor lowered his arm, with a slight look of victory in his eyes.  
“You were at the crime scene…” He paused, licking his lips as if waiting for a response. It was some time later that Sherlock answered, with more than a little bit of sarcasm.  
“I’m sorry, was that a question or a statement?”  
The young man gave a slight smile, but didn’t react any further.  
“Tell me what you know.”  
“I know a lot about a great many things. I’m afraid you will have to be more specific.”  
The young man clenched his teeth, “tell me what you know about the crime scene.”  
“Once again, I have been to a great many crime scenes, so you will have to be more specific.”  
The young man glared at his prisoner for a moment, before throwing his right fist, hitting Sherlock hard on his already bruised cheek bone. The detective did not even blink. “You’re still going to have to be more specific.”  
“The one you were at five hours ago!”  
“Oh that one, what about it?”  
That comment earned him another fist to the face, to which he once again made no reaction.  
At that point the two men entered a glaring contest, which ended a short time later with a frustrated yell by the kidnapper.  
“Well?!”  
“Well what?”  
“What do you know about it?!”  
“What do I know about what?” Sherlock asked, calmly.  
The man took in a long pained breath, while visibly clenching both his fists and teeth - he did not look harmless anymore. The fresh faced kid, now looked almost feral, as he paced up and down the room dangerously.  
“You like being a smart ass don’t you? Do you like getting your face bashed in as well? Or how about your ribs broken?” he asked threateningly, before firing off a quick round of punches to Sherlock’s upper chest. This had caught the detective off guard, who had been preparing himself, for a third blow to the face. While the punches had not been particularly hard, they had served as a warning of what was to come if he kept up the ridiculous charade. His interrogator straightened his back, took a deep calming breath and tried again.  
“What can you tell me about the crime scene you were just at? The one at the hotel.”  
“What makes you think I know anything?”  
“Oh we know all about you Mr Holmes. A Consulting Detective who can see anything and everything with a simple glance. You know something.”  
“Well I hate to break it to you, but I was not at the crime scene for very long before you attacked and abducted the three of us.”  
“That maybe so, but from what I understand that would have been plenty of time for you to gather plenty of information about the case.”  
Sherlock had felt a pang in his chest. Although he had suspected it from the beginning, his concerns over the whereabouts of John and Lestrade had in that moment been confirmed. People don’t like to tell you things but they love to contradict you, and this young man had failed to do so. Sherlock was now certain that both John and Lestrade were somewhere close by, probably in the same building, receiving a similar treatment.  
For the first time in his life, Sherlock hoped that his brother’s meddling would pay off and that a rescue party would not be too far away. It was a childish notion but one he clung to anyway.  
“So what’s it going be Mr Holmes? Are you going to start cooperating, or do I need to break your nose?” the young man asked, rubbing at the knuckles on his right hand.  
“Actually, neither of those choices seem particularly appealing at the moment, is there a third option?”  
The man simply glared and bared his teeth.  
The blow that followed had not been a surprise.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first cut had been to his right forearm, still pulled behind his back. It was a shock at first, even though he saw the blade, some small part of him wasn’t really expecting it to happen. Greg couldn’t see the damage that was being done, but he sure as hell could feel it –the sharp sting of broken skin. The cuts felt quite shallow at first, but as time went on, they got deeper and longer. Without any warning, the blade suddenly entered his arm with great force, causing Greg to cry out in both pain and shock. He looked up into the face of the man in front of him and noticed his disturbing grin. More shockingly however, was his now empty hands. The sharp pain from his forearm, informed him, that the blade was still there, impeded deep within his flesh. It was around that time, that he had decided to change his tactics - he would talk. In fact he would be the ideal prisoner, telling his captor everything and anything in minute detail, down to the colour of the wallpaper and how the victims had tied their shoes. He would be frustratingly cooperative and buy his time that way instead.  
“Alright! Alright you win. What do you want to know? Where should I start?” He gasped out.  
“Start with the two victims, who were they?”  
“Ok then…” he stared, taking a moment to gather himself. “The first victim was found just inside the hotel room with a gunshot wound to the abdomen…”  
He would do what he had to; he just hoped that it wouldn’t compromise the case too much by sharing the details. If he was being honest with himself however, that thought was becoming less of a priority with each passing moment. The situation was getting serious now, and if he didn’t play his cards right, things were going to end very badly for him.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After close to half an hour of questioning, the younger man was still no closer to finding out any real information. While Sherlock was at least answering some his questions now, he was in no way being helpful. Sometimes he would go into irrelevant detail, while others times he was deliberately vague and elusive. The common factor in all of his responses however, were the snide, sarcastic comments he felt compelled to add. Unknown to his captor, Sherlock was in fact filtering what information he shared based on the man’s reactions and enthusiasm towards specific topics. He had worked out pretty early on, that his captor wasn’t very experienced in interrogation techniques. It was far too easy to get inside the young man’s head and Sherlock was quietly happy with the amount of information he had gathered from him. He thought he had been quite subtle at first, only asking the occasional question or two, but he suspected that the young man had finally caught on to what he was doing. The last three questions he’d asked, had resulted in more punches and his jaw was aching quite badly as a result. He was just at the receiving end of such a blow, when he heard a ringing noise. The man in front of him immediately straightened then removed a phone from his pocket, fumbling to answer.  
“Sir?”  
He was putting on a good act, but Sherlock could tell that the young man was nervous.  
“Ok. I’ll find out.”  
As the man lowered the phone, he turned to Sherlock and asked forcefully “where’s the note?”  
Without missing a beat, Sherlock innocently responded “what note?”  
“Don’t start that again! The note found on the first body!”  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
This resulted in a backhanded slap across the cheek.  
“Don’t even bother. We know all about it. So are you going to tell me where it is, or do we need to go beat it out of your friend in there?”  
“So they are here? You’re not even trying to hide it?”  
“Why bother? You figured it out ages ago.”  
“Interesting,” Sherlock said with a hint of surprise.  
“What?”  
“Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought you were.”  
It took less than a second for him to realise that he’d probably gone too far with that last comment. His vision started to blur as the room swam in and out of focus.  
That last blow had been hard.  
“It doesn’t matter anyway. Franky’s in there now with your copper friend. Ten quid, he’ll have the information in the next five minutes. He’s particularly fond of his job, Frank - he takes it very seriously.  
Sherlock for the first time in nearly an hour had nothing to say. He plastered a blank look on his face and sat quietly, not making a sound. The young man smiled. For the first time, he was finally one up on the detective and he was enjoying it immensely.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It became evident after a while that his captor’s interests lay with the first victim. It appeared that Sherlock was right when he said that he wasn’t who he appeared to be. From the information that Greg could pick up, it looked as though he was in fact an undercover Police Officer. For what reason he was at the hotel though, Lestrade had no idea.  
Frank also appeared to be fishing for information about witnesses. Once again, Sherlock’s words about a third person at the crime scene came back to him. It was all becoming too much. He got the impression that everyone knew more than him, and yet Frank insisted on asking him questions he didn’t know the answers to.  
The knife was still sticking out of his forearm, causing a dull throbbing sensation to run down the length of his arm. Lestrade had managed to please his interrogator enough to avoid any further damage being inflicted but this all changed when Frank received a phone call and he started asking about the note again.  
“I already told you, I don’t know anything about a note.”  
He could picture himself putting the small evidence bag with the note, inside the upper, right hand inner pocket of his coat. He still had no idea what it meant, but he got the distinct feeling that it was important, and he was not willing to give up that piece of information just yet.  
“Do you want me to give you a matching hole in your other arm?” Frank said with a snarl. “We know there was a note and we know that you had it, so where is it now?”  
Lestrade stayed silent, the comment had made his stomach turn. How did they know about the note? The way he saw it, there were only two possibilities. Either word had got back to the station and there was a mole in the force; or more disturbingly, the kidnappers also had John or Sherlock, or possibly even both. Neither option sat particularly well with him.  
“Ok then, have it your way.”  
Frank, took hold of the knife and gave it a violent shake, causing Lestrade to cry out in pain.  
“This is going to keep happening until you tell me what I want to know! Where is the note?!”  
Reluctantly, Greg nodded down to his coat.  
“Check here… top, inner pocket.” He managed to gasp.  
Frank took no time manhandling the small piece of paper out of its hidey hole. How it had been missed when they had originally searched him, he didn’t know. He looked on as the man read the small note, a look of confusion crossing his face.  
“What does it mean?” Frank asked quietly, clearly puzzled.  
“I don’t know.”  
“What does it mean?!”  
“I don’t know! Look at it! You tell me what it means!”  
Frank looked once again at the note, then back up to the Inspector before turning towards the door.  
“This isn’t over pig, I’ll be back.” He called out over his shoulder as the door closed behind him, leaving Lestrade with nothing but his thoughts and the ever present dripping sound.


	5. No Answers

**2 Hours Earlier**  
Sally was not surprised to find that Lestrade’s wife was still listed as his next of kin, despite the two of them having been separated for almost four months now. She _was_ surprised however, to realise that despite having worked with them for over a year, Sally had no idea who any of John or Sherlock’s family were, or even if they had any. She did know that the two men were close to their land lady, so she’d sent someone over to talk to her, but as for actual family, Sally had no idea. The fact that John was ex-military meant that his information was actually relatively easy to track down. A lot of his personal information including next of kin contacts was recorded in his file on the government database. It didn’t take her long at all to track down the only immediate family member he had left - his sister Harriet.

It was nearing 5 o’clock in the morning when Sally knocked on the woman’s door. It was still very early for most people, so it was not a surprise when it took several minutes before she heard the click of the lock and the door creaked open. A woman with long red hair and sleepy eyes peered out at her, her voice scratchy with sleep. “Hello?”  
“Harriet Watson?” Sally asked carefully.  
“Ahhh no, I’m Clara. Who are you?” the woman replied, almost suspiciously.  
“Detective Sergeant Donovan,” Sally said flashing her badge. “Is Harriet Watson here?”  
The woman’s eyes grew, as she stuttered through her words, opening the door slightly wider. “Oh! Um, yes she is. Is something wrong?”  
“Would you mind getting her for me please?”  
“Yeah, yeah sure, come in.” 

Clara led her towards the small living room and offered her a seat, before going off to fetch the woman in question. The two returned a short time later, wrapped in dressing gowns, and sat opposite her on the remaining sofa. Sally took in the blonde haired woman in front of her, but found it difficult to see any resemblance to the doctor. Other than sharing a similar shade of hair colour, the two appeared to be different in almost every way.  
“Harriet Watson?”  
“It’s just Harry, but yeah... What’s this about?” the woman asked, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes.  
“My name is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. I have worked with your brother John, on a number of different cases…”  
“Oh god, what happened?” Harry asked in a panic. “Is John alright?”  
The woman had suddenly turned very pale, and she gripped her partner’s hand tightly. As much as Sally would have loved to have given them an answer, she honestly had no idea one way or the other.  
“Earlier tonight, John and his friend Sherlock were called in to help us on a case... We are not entirely sure what happened after that, but we do know that the two of them and the officer they went to meet have now gone missing.”  
“Wh… what do you mean missing?” Harry asked, a mixture of confusion and outrage in her voice.  
“It would appear that there was a fire, and possibly some kind of explosion at the location where they were last seen. When we arrived, there was no sign of them and we have been unable to make contact with them ever since.”  
As Sally continued to explain the situation, Harry let go of Clara’s hand and stormed over to a small table. There she unplugged her charging phone, scrolled through her contact list, and hit the dial button. The room fell silent as the three of them waited. She could hear the distant sound of ringing through the speaker before it flicked over to voicemail.  
“This is John Watson, I’m currently unavailable…”  
Harry pulled the phone away and tried again, getting more frantic with each attempt.  
“I have to ask, do you know of any place that you think John might go to if he were in trouble? Maybe a hideout? Another property? Somewhere he could lay low for a while if he had to?” Sally asked gently.  
“No, I don’t think so… I don’t know… The two of us don’t really talk much anymore. I can’t think of anywhere.” Clara eventually stood and slowly steered the distressed woman back to her seat, it was clear that the conversation was upsetting her. No matter what issues the two siblings may have had in the past, it was clear that Harry still cared.  
“Ok that’s not a problem, just thought I would ask, just in case.” Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out her business card and handed it to John’s estranged sister. “If you think of anything, or if you hear from him, please ring and let me know.” Harriet took the card with shaking hands, her worried eyes scanning the small lines of writing. “I know this must be difficult, but I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to find them. John works with us; he’s part of the team. He’s one of the family… one of our own. We will find him.” With that, a tear rolled down Harriet’s face and Sally took this as her cue to leave. “I better be getting back. I promise that as soon as we have any more information we will let you know.”  
“Thank you officer,” Clara said, rubbing small circles into Harry’s back.  
“I’m just sorry I don’t have any more information.”  
Harry nodded silently, while Clara led the sergeant back to the entranceway.  
As the door closed behind her, Sally allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She hated making those types of house calls; it was by far the worst part of her job. With that duty behind her, she focused her attention on the next task, but something told her that finding Sherlock’s family would not be as easy. If the man’s temperament was anything to go by, any family he did have, would most likely not be as understanding as Harriet Watson. She got the feeling that this was going to be a long day.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

No fists had been thrown since Sherlock had stopped talking; in fact nothing had happened at all. His young interrogator seemed as though he was enjoying having the upper hand for once, and had positioned himself against one of the side walls with a smug look on his face. It was clear from his body language, that he was confident that Lestrade would give up the information sooner rather than later. 

After about four minutes of silence, both men were slightly startled by the sound of the heavy door opening. His interrogator stood up at once and walked up to greet a second man who had just entered the room. He was approximately 35 years old and was quite tall with greasy black hair. His arms were heavily tattooed and he had at least two teeth missing - This man _did_ look like a professional.  
After a short exchange of words, the second man (who he presumed was Lestrade’s interrogator, Frank) quietly handed his younger colleague a familiar looking note, then stood back, presumably to enjoy the show.  
“Look what I’ve got,” the younger man said, turning to face him. “Told you it would be less than five minutes,” he said with a grin. “So there was no note then huh?”  
“Well, what do you know, it would appear that I was mistaken,” replied Sherlock calmly.  
“No kidding! What can you tell me about it?”  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he considered the small, blood stained message in front of him. “It’s a torn section of paper, most likely from a standard A6 spiral bound notepad. Poor paper quality, could have originated from just about anywhere. Blood stains on the paper, including the torn edge could suggest that the note was in close proximity or possibly even handled by someone who was bleeding. The ink…”  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, ok smart ass. What does is say?” the older thug interrupted, taking a few threatening steps forward.  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows with a slight look of surprise before glancing back at the small note being held up in front of him.  
“It says ‘TL Esc…”  
He was silenced by another sharp slap to the face.  
“We’re not idiots, we can read! What does it mean?!”  
“Apparently it means that you can’t read basic code.”  
The next blow split his lip open.  
“You just can’t help yourself can you?!” the young man yelled in frustration. “If you don’t start giving me straight answers you’re going to really regret it! Do you know what it means or not?  
“Not.”  
“I don’t believe you.” Sherlock didn’t respond. “I don’t believe that for one second. I think you know exactly what it means. In fact, I think you know a lot more than what you’ve been letting on.”

The room went abnormally quiet once more, as the two men watched the oddly composed man in front of them continue his silent defiance.  
“Looks like you have your work cut for you Jatz,” the older man said, slapping the younger across the shoulders. “I really wish I could stay and watch, but I have my own project to get back to,” he continued, directing his words towards the bound detective. Sherlock felt his stomach drop as he realised the implications of the man’s words, and he had to work hard not to react to them.  
“Have fun, oh and if he needs some more ‘encouragement’, I’ll leave a few tools just outside the door for you.” With that, the second man turned and exited the room, leaving the two of them alone once more.  
“So... Mr Holmes… This is how it’s going to work. You’re going to start giving me some proper answers, or I am going to open that door and start getting more creative. Do you understand?”  
Sherlock looked at the man in front of him for a second, before fixing his gaze on an unknown spot on the back wall. For all intent and purposes he looked both calm and relaxed with an unreadable expression on his face. Definitely not the look, one would normally expect from someone who was getting the shit beaten out of him.  
“What does the message mean?”  
Sherlock remained silent.  
“What do you know about the true identity of the first victim?”  
Once again Sherlock did not reply, choosing instead to enter into his mind palace.  
The truth was he didn’t know all the facts. He was hoping that given enough time, he would be able to sort through all the information he had, to come up with a clearer picture. He was so engrossed with the puzzle at hand, that he didn’t notice the next question being asked. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the punch that followed it.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**1 Hour Earlier**  
As it turns out, finding Sherlock’s next of kin was not difficult in the slightest. In fact she didn’t need to look for him at all. As she was walking back to her police car, a large black vehicle had slowly pulled up beside her and a well-dressed woman emerged from within.  
“Sergeant Donovan?”  
Sally quickly looked around her, scanning the street for danger, before glaring back at the woman in guarded suspicion. “Yes?”  
“Please get in the car, my employer wishes to speak to you.”  
“Your employer?” she asked in surprise. “Speak to me about what?”  
“The disappearance of three people from a hotel fire several hours ago.”  
Her breath caught in her chest, as she processed the woman’s words. There were so many questions to ask, like how did this stranger know about the fire? It hadn’t even reached the papers yet. More importantly, how did this woman know who she was, and how did she know that she’d be working the case?  
“And who is your employer exactly?”  
“Please get in, all will be explained.”  
Reluctantly and with some hesitation, Sally cautiously walked towards the opened door. Glancing in, she noticed a dark haired man in a suit, waiting patiently for her to take a seat.  
“It is good to finally meet you Sergeant Donovan.”  
“Who are you? What is this about?”  
“I have information for you in regards to the fire at the Skyridge Hotel approximately seven hours ago. As well as the subsequent disappearance of Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.”  
Sally’s earlier questions came bubbling once again to the surface as she wondered who on Earth these people were. “How do you know about that?”  
“Let’s just say that I make it my business to keep track on what they get up to.”  
“Why?”  
“I have a vested interest in their ongoing wellbeing.”  
Sally realised at that point that she was not going to get a straight forward answer from the man, and this frustrated her to no end.  
“Right then, what can you tell me.”  
“I have been able to ascertain that all three men were abducted from the hotel. They were ambushed by at least seven people and were driven away in a white 2007 Volkswagen Transporter, registration S583DVK.”  
Sally was dumbstruck, “how on earth do you know that?”  
“CCTV Footage from the surrounding areas.”  
“How did you manage get your hands on CCTV Footage? We are still tracking it down!”  
The suited man replied with an all-knowing smile before continuing. “We were able to track the van moving west for a number of miles before we temporarily lost it. We also managed to track the three men’s mobile phones to an old abandoned warehouse in that same direction, 10 miles out of central London. They were found mostly broken, dumped amongst a pile of hard rubbish. The van was picked up once more after leaving the warehouse location, moving north-west for a time, before it was eventually lost. Of course we cannot guarantee that they were still in the van at that time and had not been transferred into a different vehicle. There are no further clues at this time as to where the men were taken.”  
Sally was speechless.  
“I’m going to need all of that...”  
The suited man put up his hand as if to silence her.  
“It is all being sent to Scotland Yard as we speak. It will be there waiting, once you arrive.” Sally didn’t know what to say. “There is no need to thank me, but I would appreciate it, if you were to keep me informed on any further developments. I would also like to offer my assistance if ever you find your investigation slowed for whatever reason. I have the… ability to… fast track, certain requests and it is my wish that this case is to be solved as quickly as possible with the safe recovery of all three men.”  
The car slowly rolled to a stop, and the door to Sally’s left opened. Clearly the conversation had come to an end.  
“How will I contact you?”  
“You can reach me on this number.” The man replied, handing her a small card with a mobile number, written carefully on the back. “You are only one of four people who have this number, and the other three are unlikely to call anytime soon. I trust you will keep it to yourself.”  
Sally looked at the neat, précised hand writing for a moment then flipped the card to see if there was anything on the other side. It was with some amazement that she read the delicately printed name.  
“Mycroft Holmes?”  
“That is correct.”  
“Ar….are you…”  
“Indeed I am.”  
Sally could do nothing but stare, her mouth slightly open.  
“I don’t wish to keep you, sergeant. It appears you have a lot of work to do.”  
“O..of course” Sally stuttered. She looked once again at the name on the card, then up into the man’s face. Now that she thought about it, she could see the family resemblance and the personalities sure seemed to fit. As if reading Sally’s mind, Mycroft gave her a small smile.  
“Though frustrating as he may be at times, I am somewhat attached to my little brother. I would be devastated if anything serious were to befall him.”  
Donovan gave the man a quick nod then exited the vehicle, pleased to find that they had dropped her back at her car. Without saying another word, Sally got in her cruiser and watched as the black vehicle moved away and disappeared into the distance. It was by far one of the strangest encounters that she had ever experienced in her life.  
Turning on the ignition, she quickly called Dimmock and filled him in on the latest development before making her way back to the station. For the second time in less than seven hours, Sally found herself speeding through the backstreets of London. Lestrade and the others hadn’t just gone missing, they had been abducted, and time was of the essence.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Present Time**  
The latest blow had made his vision blur slightly and left an open gash along his right eyebrow.  
“TELL ME!”  
He could see that the man in front of him was fast losing patience, but he remained completely still and silent.  
“You’re really start’n to piss me off!”  
He heard a slight scrape on the floor as his captor picked up the electric baton. The charging buzz of electricity filled the room as he tried to force all feelings from his mind. He had learnt early on, that while mental absence didn’t stop the pain, it did help to dull it. His thoughts were so far away that he didn’t notice the heavy door open and the second man walk in.  
“Getting anywhere?”  
“Not a thing!”  
He could hear the anger clearly in the younger man’s voice and just a little bit of fear.  
“He’s not even talking anymore, hasn’t said a single thing in over two bloody hours!”  
The second man turned to him, and he finally got his first look at the new figure. Mid 30’s, tall, dark hair, and he wore an expensive suit. He was obviously the one he had to thank for being in this god forsaken hell hole.  
“You don’t want to talk? That’s ok; we’ll just have to move on to plan B.”  
Sherlock felt himself go numb; what was plan B? What did that mean? He vaguely registered this new man telling Jatz to give him 10 minutes and to ‘have fun in the meantime’, however he was too busy running various scenarios through his head, to really take in the full conversation. Before he knew it, the second man had left and Jatz had turned to him, the baton in his hand now fully charged.  
“Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this.”  
Sherlock tried to convince himself that he couldn’t feel the sharp bolt of electricity flow through his chest like lightning. Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny the extreme twitches in his extremities or the blood in his mouth from the fresh bite marks on his tongue.


	6. Trio in Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Donovan/Dimmock timeline has now caught up, so both will be moving forward at the same pace. Also, now that we have established all the main players and where they all are, I will indicate at the top of each section, whose perspective we are looking at. Hopefully this will make things a little easier to follow.

_***- Lestrade-***_   
Lestrade had conflicted feelings when the door opened and Frank walked back in. Part of him was glad for the distraction and the company, but he was also nervous and afraid as to what his tormentor had planned for him next.   
“Time we got moving pig,” Frank announced with a disturbing grin. He was followed by another man who was quite a lot shorter than Frank, a little older and had red hair.   
“Where are we going?” he asked anxiously.   
“Oh you’ll find out soon enough. We’ve got a little surprise for you.”  
Keys tinkled in the handcuff lock, and one by one his wrists fell free. An instant wave of relief flooded through his aching arms before he was dragged roughly to his feet. Stumbling at first, he managed to stay upright as he was shoved forcibly into the corridor. Lestrade didn’t have time to think, as he was led through the dank building. He was too focused on moving forward to worry about anything else. It was therefore somewhat of a surprise when he found himself being dropped into another chair - this one warmer, and a lot more comfortable than the last one. His wrists were pushed down onto the wooden arms and secured by a number of leather restraints. His legs were then tied in a similar fashion, making it difficult to move. When the two men were satisfied that the Inspector would not be going anywhere, they left without any further interaction. It was only then, that Greg took a closer look at his new surroundings. 

The room was quite a bit larger than the last one, but still had concrete walls and floor. Thankfully there were no signs of any faulty plumbing; in fact he could hear no sounds at all. The lighting situation was also lot better, and he could clearly see the other objects in the room. The first thing he noticed were the other two timber chairs, identical to the one he was seated in. All three had been strategically placed in the shape of a triangle, so they were all facing towards the centre of the room. His chair was located to the left of the door, a second one sat to the right of it. The third chair had been set further apart from the other two, towards the back of the room. It had been positioned close to the last and perhaps most disturbing piece of furniture – a small fold out table with a light cloth, covering what appeared to be a number of different unknown items. This was clearly phase two of the interrogation process and it wasn’t a difficult leap to figure out who the other chairs were intended for. 

Lestrade didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and a bound and beaten John came stumbling in, flanked on either side by the same two men who had left him only minutes earlier.  
“Greg?” John asked, confused.  
“Hey John... Wow you look like hell.”  
“What are you doing here? They told me, I was the only one…”  
“Yeah they told me the same thing. You okay?”  
“Yeah, and you?”  
“Fine.”  
“Okay, okay enough with the talking” the red headed man growled. He spun John around and practically threw him into the next closest chair, the one to his right. The doctor winced ever so slightly when they started securing his arms in the restraints.   
John may have said he was okay, but he sure as hell didn’t look it. The man appeared pale and there seemed to be a lot of dried blood on his face, particularly around his nose and forehead. His left eye was clearly swollen and it was only when the two men left the room again, that Lestrade noticed the dark blood stain on the shoulder of his jacket.  
“What did they do to you?” he asked quietly.   
John studied him for a moment. “I could ask you the same question. What happened to your arm?”  
Greg looked down, seeing for the first time the damage Frank’s knife had inflicted.  
“Probably something similar to your shoulder,” he replied nonchalantly.   
John nodded, looking over towards the remaining chair in the room. He hesitated for a moment, before asking in a small voice, “have you seen Sherlock?”  
“No,” he sighed sadly.   
“This is bad.”  
No further words were needed. The two men sat in tense silence, waiting for the door to open, wondering what condition their friend would be in when he arrived.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_***- Sherlock-***_   
Sherlock’s entire body was on fire as the electricity coursed through his system. All his nerve endings were screaming with pain and yet he remained silent – only just.   
His body would spasm and contort uncontrollably when the electricity hit, and it would always leave him twitching and gasping for breath. It was at this point where Jatz would throw a fist towards his diaphragm, pushing whatever breath he still had left, out of his lungs. Needless to say, Sherlock’s condition had deteriorated over the last ten minutes. He was having trouble breathing and his mind was becoming more and more hazy. His head hurt and he seriously doubted his ability to use either of his arms or legs, they felt heavy and trembled.

The door opened and two figures came wandering in, one of which he recognised as the dark haired man from before.  
“Woah!” the man said with a laugh, “you really messed him up Jatz!”  
“You think so?”  
“Yeah nice work,” replied the second man with a slight grin. Sherlock glanced at the new figure, but other than noticing his short red hair, he couldn’t absorb much about the man’s appearance. His brain was too muddled to think properly and quite frankly he didn’t care.  
“So we’re all ready in the other room! Just waitn’ on you and ya friend here to join us and then we can start the party!” exclaimed the dark haired man excitedly. He was almost bouncing with enthusiasm, which even in Sherlock’s dazed mind did not equate to anything good. Before he even realised what was happening, Jatz and the dark haired man were pulling him out of the cold chair and dragging him towards the door. His body felt like jelly, and he found his legs hard to control. By the time they had reached the hallway, the two nameless men were holding him upright. Though he tried to keep up and walk on his own, he found that for the most part his feat simply dragged along the ground behind them.  
“Hey Rusty, where’s X?” Jatz asked the red headed man.  
“He’s gonna meet us there kid.”  
The small exchange did nothing to stop the growing sense of unease he felt, as they drew closer to the end room and the suited man who was waiting there for them.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_***- John -***_   
He felt sick.   
All this time he had been under the delusion that both of his friends had somehow managed to escape - _He should have known better than to trust a crazy psychopath who liked to poke holes in people..._   
Looking over at Lestrade, he could clearly see that their time apart had not been a pleasant experience for the inspector either. The man had received quite a number of nasty cuts and bruises. One in particular which concerned him was the deep gash to his right forearm. Fortunately, the leather restraints were acting as a type of tourniquet and the blood had already stopped flowing. He made a mental note to clean and bandage it for him, if he ever got the chance. The last thing they needed was for one of them to get an infection in a place like this. 

Waiting for their captors to return was almost torturous in itself. The silence was unsettling, he couldn’t stand it. He hated not knowing what was going on, and by the look of it, Greg felt the same way. His concern for their friend grew with every passing minute and he couldn’t help but picture the worst. At the click of the door, his head snapped up and around, just in time to see the tall man in the expensive suit stroll into the room.   
“Gentlemen,” the man said casually, as if welcoming them to a social gathering. He took a few more steps forward then turned to watch, as a very unsteady Sherlock was dragged into the room.  
“Oh my god,” Greg whispered, mirroring his own thoughts exactly.  
If Lestrade looked bad, then Sherlock looked terrible. For one, he seemed unable to even stand up without support, let alone walk. The two watched as Sherlock was marched between them and dumped in the remaining chair; the one which sat furthest away and closest to the mystery table.  
“Sherlock, you okay?” John asked anxiously.   
He did not get a response.  
The detective’s face was showcasing a number bruises and seemed to also be covered in blood. He had a large bleeding gash above a very swollen right eye and every now and then, a slight tremor would pass through his body. What bothered him the most however was that Sherlock appeared to be avoiding all forms of communication, including eye contact. 

The door closed suddenly and his attention was once again drawn to the man in the dark suit, who had positioned himself in the centre of the triangle, facing both him and Lestrade.  
“Greetings gentlemen, you may call me Mr X. I believe, the two of you have already met Frank and Rusty over there,” the man said, pointing over at the two criminals who had escorted him in. “Then of course there’s Jatz,” he added, pointing out another younger looking man, who John had not previously noticed. “Now I suppose you must be wondering why you are all here. Well the truth is, your friend over there has not been particularly forthcoming in providing us with the information we need. In fact a few hours ago, he decided to stop talking all together and quite frankly it’s becoming bothersome.”  
Mr X walked over to stand behind Sherlock, placing both hands on the man’s shoulders. The detective did not move, his head still slumped towards the ground. “So we though, we would give him some extra incentive…”  
John did not like where this was headed.  
“…This however, is quite unfortunate for the two of you… but don’t fear, if Mr Holmes is any sort of friend, it will not take him long to start giving us the information we need. Who knows, maybe in the process, the two of you may also _‘remember’_ details you failed to mention earlier.”

X turned towards the small table and removed the lightweight cloth, revealing a number of sharp and potentially dangerous looking items. John and Lestrade looked at each other. All though they didn’t speak, John could read the apprehension in Greg’s eyes and he was certain his face held a similar look of alarm.   
“Now Mr Holmes, are you going to start cooperating, or will we need to start playing with your two friends here?”  
Sherlock slowly raised his head, letting it hit the back of his chair. His face was void of all emotion and he stared blankly at the empty space in front of him, saying nothing.  
“Ouch! Some friend you are… So who will be the lucky one to goes first then huh? The work colleague or the housemate?”  
Sherlock turned his head to glare at the suited man, before resuming his previous position with a quiet sigh.  
“The inspector it is then.”   
Greg visibly stiffened at the announcement, but put on a brave front as Rusty strolled over and backhanded him across the face.   
John looked over at Lestrade with concern; he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just sit there and watch Greg getting beaten; he was a doctor for god sake!   
He shot Sherlock a questioning look but the man had not shown any reaction to the violent act. He had stayed perfectly still, as if frozen, looking into the void between the two of them. John reluctantly turned back to Lestrade and watch hopelessly as the inspector was hit with three more blows. He clenched his teeth and thought about the various ways in which he could kill someone with his bare hands. If they ever got out of here, he would be more than happy to test a few of them out.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_***- Sherlock-***_   
Rusty had been working on Lestrade for close to three minutes, and during that time not a single question had been asked of anyone. It seemed as though they were beating the hell out of him just to prove that they could. When Rusty did finally stop, Lestrade was breathing quite heavily, and his face showed a number of new imperfections.  
“Feel like talking yet Mr Holmes?” Frank asked him, moving out of the shadows, a cigarette in hand.   
He decided not reply; in fact he made no indication that he had even heard the question.   
Frank came up behind him, took a handful of hair and forced his head in the direction of the small table beside them, and the assortment of items which lay upon it.   
“Look at all the different toys we brought” the man said with a snarl. “Just image all the things we could do to your friends… If you don’t start talking, we’re gonna start playin and trust me, by the time I finished with ‘em… there’ll be nothing left!”

Sherlock tried not to process the scene in front of him, but couldn’t help it. The table held a variety of knives and blades which varied in both shape and size. There was a length of chain, a crowbar and what looked like a range of electric tools including a taser, all laid out neatly on a cream cloth. He kept his eyes fixed on an imaginary point in the distance and tried to avoid any further sensory input. After a moment, his head was jerked back to stare into his captor’s angry face. Frank was looking for a reaction and Sherlock was determined not to give him one.  
After a few frustrating seconds, Frank took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke directly into his face, before forcefully throwing his head towards the ground. Taking a moment, he slowly straightened his back and resumed his previous position, staring into space, not making a sound.

“What’s it gonna take to make you start squawking huh?” Pushing Rusty out the way, the dark haired man stormed up to Lestrade, and stood behind him, making sure that both he and John had a clear view.   
With his eyes completely fixed on Sherlock, Frank took hold of the Inspector’s head and yanked it to the side, before taking the cigarette out of his mouth and pressing it to the man’s exposed neck.   
Lestrade could not help the slight cry that left his mouth, and John could not help but yell at the indignity of it all. It was clear that Frank was not interested in either of them; the man had his eyes set squarely on him. Without a word, he continued to look forward vacantly, which did nothing to improve the man’s anger.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_***- Donovan-***_   
Upon arriving back at the station, Sally was confronted with a pile of files and recordings just as Mycroft Holmes had promised. To her delight, she soon discovered that not only did she have all the security footage from the immediate area, but that it had also been time coded. Every event of significance from around the time of the abduction had been separately recorded - it would save the department hours.   
“So what have we got Sergeant?” Sally had just loaded the first of the tapes when a very weary D.I. Dimmock had appeared by her side.  
“That’s good timing sir, we were just about to find out.” Sally fast-forwarded to the indicated time and pressed play. 

The footage appeared to have been taken from a camera on an adjacent street to the hotel. Through the dark, they could just make out the back service door of the small building. After a few seconds, a white Volkswagen Transporter, slowly pulled into frame and parked close to the back door. Three men exited the vehicle, all wearing dark clothes and carrying hand guns. They ran towards the front of the building and disappeared out of frame. A few moments later, another four darkly clad figures emerged from the van, all wearing balaclavas. They quickly equipped themselves with a number of different weapons then ran towards the back of the building where they disappeared from the camera’s range. After exactly 1 minute and 53 seconds, the camera picked up a brilliant, white flash which distorted the image for a short time.  
“What the hell was that?” Someone asked from over their shoulder. It appeared as if they had gathered a bit of an audience. A number of officers had crowded around the small screen, hoping to be the one who would notice a key piece of evidence.  
“Looks like it could be some sort of flash grenade.” Sally muttered to Dimmock, who hummed in agreement.  
“That would fit. The fire department said there had been no evidence of an explosion, despite witness accounts saying there was. That didn’t look like a normal explosion either; it’s the wrong colour and there’s no damage. I’d say that’s a fairly good assumption.”

For a long time, it appeared as if nothing was happening. Sally looked down at the list of timestamps and heard a murmur of voices suddenly erupt around her. Looking back up at the monitor, she saw what had caused the sudden commotion. Suspended between two of the darkly dressed men, was a clearly unconscious D.I. Lestrade. His head was slumped towards the ground, obscuring his face but everyone in the room knew who it was. As the group of three reached the van, the back door popped open and a black bag was forced over the unconscious man’s face as he was tossed inside. The whole process was repeated a further two times, as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were also taken from the scene. With the three men secured, and all the kidnappers accounted for, the van drove out of view.

The room had gone very silent as each person processed this information in their own way. The three men had indeed been taken and all three had been unconscious at the time. There was no way of knowing what condition they were in, she just hoped it wasn’t anything serious.  
“Right, listen up everybody!” Dimmock yelled, walking out of the small office and addressing the entire station. “I want as many people as possible working on the Skyridge case. We have an officer and two consulting civilians who have been abducted from the scene. Pass off what you can to other departments, from now on this is our top priority!” With that, the station was humming with movement and whispered conversations, as officers tried to make arrangements to clear up their schedules. In the meantime Sally had been staring blankly at the computer screen and had just noticed an odd mist move into view.  
“Sir? Take a look at this. I think those men must have started the fire when the exited the building.”  
“I thought as much, which means that this entire thing is a cover up. I just don’t understand why they felt the need to kidnap three people in the process. Why not the other officers too?”  
“Maybe they recognised Sherlock from the papers? He’s made quite a reputation for himself lately.”  
“Who knows,” Dimmock sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “We’ll need to go over the rest of these tapes, see if we can find out where they were taken and try to get an ID off the van.”  
“Sir, my source told me that the footage shows the van moving west but that it was eventually lost. I have no reason to question this information. I think our time would be better suited elsewhere. The men’s phones were tracked to an abandoned warehouse, we need to get someone to check it out.”  
“Okay, I’ll have Peterson and O’Riley follow that up, see if they can find out anything else. I’ll still get a couple of guys from tech to finish going through these tapes, just to verify what we already have. In the meantime we need to try and figure out what originally went on in that room, clearly we’re missing something. The key will be identifying the victims, but until then it would be a good idea to try and piece together what the scene looked like before it was destroyed.” Dimmock turned to look at her, his eyes fierce but focused. “I want you to head back to the hospital and get statements from the two officers, find out what they remember of the original crime scene.”   
She nodded her head in understanding, “What are you going to do?”  
“I am going to track down the other officers who responded to the original 999 call. Hopefully we can start to piece things together that way.”


	7. Pain and Anguish

***- John -***  
“Who was victim number one?” Frank asked Sherlock again, holding the taser out towards Greg’s chest. The Inspector had already been subjected to a nasty beating and had received over half a dozen different sized burns all over his arms and neck. The bright red dots stood out clearly on the man’s pale skin, despite the numerous cuts that already adorned his body.  
“We’ve already told you! His name was Tony Roberts! He was a software designer from Leeds! That was the only ID he had on him!”  
He had been yelling at Frank for some time now but the man was not interested in what he had to say. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be fixed on Sherlock, who despite all the screaming had remained completely silent throughout the questioning.  
“Well?!” Frank yelled, getting more agitated.  
Sherlock casually looked up and watched, as Frank jammed the taser into Greg’s stomach, sending 50,000 volts of electricity straight through the man’s lower chest. He watched in horror as every muscle in his friend’s body seized up, causing the inspector to emit a pained groan.  
After what seemed like an eternity, the electrical current finally stopped, leaving Lestrade sagging in his chair trying to catch his breath. Feeling enraged, John turned his attention back to an expressionless Sherlock, who had been following the tattooed man’s actions with deadpan eyes. Without a word, the detective looked once again at Frank and sighed quietly, as if already bored by their situation. With an angry and frustrated growl, Frank grabbed the little finger on Lestrade’s right hand and violently twisted, until the man was screaming and the digit stuck out at an almost 90 degree angle. John went back to screaming obscenities while Sherlock continued to watch on silently.  
“Was there anyone else in the room?” Frank asked again with a snarl. This appeared to be one of their favourite lines of enquiry, along with: what was the meaning of the note? It was becoming painfully clear, that it was one of only a few things they were really interested in and they continued to ask the same questions over and over again. 

When Sherlock once again failed to offer a reply, Frank leaned in, took a strong grip of Lestrade’s ring finger and slowly began to twist. Greg’s face contorted with pain, but this time he was able to hold in the majority of his scream. The inspector’s pain filled eyes passed back and forth between both him and Sherlock, silently pleaded for their help as Frank moved on to his middle finger.  
“I’ll ask you again, was there anyone there?”  
After a moment of silence, Lestrade took a couple of deep breaths and scrunched his face in preparation.  
“Yes! Yes there was!” John yelled, unable to watch anymore.  
Frank turned to look at him, his face mildly surprised. “Come again?”  
“There were signs of another person in the hotel room.”

Suddenly the whole mood of the room changed, as the four kidnappers became very interested in what he had to say. Lestrade dropped his head in relief as his finger was dropped and Frank slowly moved away.  
“Was there a third person there when you arrived?” Mr X asked quietly from somewhere behind him.  
“No.”  
“But someone else had been there?”  
“I… I think so.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank asked angrily.  
John didn’t know how to respond. He could remember Sherlock, spouting off a long list of how he knew that there had been a third person there at some stage, but he could not really remember the specific details. He looked over at his detective friend for assistance, but received only a blank expression in return. Looking closer, he gazed carefully into the man’s eyes, searching for any hidden messages that Sherlock may have been trying to communicate. His heart soon sank however, when he realised that there wasn’t any.  
“So the man with all the answers is still not saying anything… I find it interesting that no one has mentioned this before, maybe it’s time to up the stakes a bit, what do you think?” X slowly made his way back into the centre of the room. “See I wonder Mr Holmes, what else could we be doing to convince you to talk? I thought it would have been painfully obvious by now that we will get the information out of you, the only real question, is how?” X turned to stare at Lestrade, whose body visibly tensed under the man’s cold glare.  
“It would appear that your work colleague is merely that, but surely you would hold some fondness for the good doctor here. The two of you do share a flat after all.”  
John felt his stomach drop.  
“I did some research on you, Doctor Watson” X said, looking over his shoulder at him. “Formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier’s; was invalided home from Afghanistan after receiving a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Have you ever been shot Mr Holmes?” X asked suddenly, turning back to look at the detective. Sherlock stared at him vacantly but said nothing.  
“I have. Three years ago, I was hit in my left calf. It wasn’t anything serious, just a simple through and through but I tell you what, that was a level of pain I had never experienced before. The feeling of hot metal, passing through your body… Well, you know what I mean, don’t you Doctor?”  
A new feeling of dread washed over him as he watched the suited man make his way over to the table. John could not be sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock flinch sightly in reaction to whatever item the man had just picked up.  
“I have always been curious as to what it would feel like to be shot in slow motion,” X continued. “To feel a piece of hot lead slowly bore its way through layers of skin and bone…”  
Lestrade had apparently recovered some of his composure and had looked up at the last comment. The room had gone unbelievably quiet.  
“Unfortunately, I have been thus far unable to slow down time, nor invent a slow firing gun; however I have thought up an alternative, which I believe will be somewhat similar…”  
He felt an icy shiver run through his body, as X held up the wireless drill. He shot Sherlock a quick look of panic before he was able to pull himself together. He was a soldier after all, he had been trained for situations like this… well, not exactly like this… oh who was he kidding? He had done a three day training course in his final year at the academy; he was a doctor not a spy!

Mr X was fiddling around with different drill attachments, before deciding on one that he liked - medium length and about 5mm thick. He made his way over to him, securing the drill bit in place as he went. John could feel his heart pounding a million miles an hour as he tried his best not to panic.  
“Now doctor, I believe Rusty has already been having a poke around your old war wound, not too much I trust?”  
He remained silent, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was about to come.  
“I always considered myself a handy man… hold him.”  
Frank moved to secure his right side, while Rusty took hold of the already injured left shoulder. They tore the front of his shirt and jacket open, revealing the painful looking knife wound which he received earlier. Sitting up straight, he fixed his eyes on an empty spot in front of him and raised his chin. Even tied to a chair and facing torture, he tried to emit the strong front of a soldier. How long he could hold this pose for however, would soon be determined.

The drill started and John could feel the two men’s grips tighten on his upper arms and torso. He tried not to watch as the drill moved closer and closer to his exposed flesh. He could vaguely hear a panicked scream coming from somewhere nearby, and it took him a moment to realise who it was and what they were saying.  
“You don’t need to do this! Put it down! He’s told you everything he knows!!!” Lestrade continued to yell at the three men, his voice sounding more and more strained.  
John found controlling his breathing more difficult, as X slowly and dramatically moved the drill towards his shoulder. Just as he thought he felt the tiniest bit pressure, it would disappear again, and the drill would move away. They were teasing him and that alone was torture in itself. 

This continued for about a minute, before the drill stopped and X turned to give Sherlock one final chance.  
“Come on Mr Holmes, you know that I will follow through with this, just tell me what I want to know and it can stop. John here can keep his arm in once piece and you can see to it that the inspector gets his fingers fixed. I’ll even have the boys drop you off near a medical facility, how about that? All you have to do is tell me what it is you’re hiding. What do you know about the third person at the hotel and what do you know about the note? That’s all I’m really interested in. After that, I’ll let you go.”  
John could see Sherlock roll his eyes; the man clearly didn’t believe what X was saying any more than he did. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock spoke.  
“I don’t care what you do to them; I’ve said everything I intend to say on the matter.”  
Everyone in the room looked towards Sherlock in varying levels of surprise, none more so than John and Greg, who were not only shocked, but felt hurt and betrayed by the detective’s words. Surely he couldn’t have really meant them.  
“So be it.”  
X placed the tip of the drill into his already wounded shoulder and slowly pressed down on the trigger. John’s breathing and heart rate jumped, as he heard the tool come whirling to life. Clenching his teeth and his fists he tried not to scream, as the he felt the drill piece rotate into his skin.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Lestrade -***  
Lestrade looked on, with a feeling of both extreme relief and guilt, as the tip of the drill piece disappeared into his friend’s shoulder and not his own. John had tried to hold back his screams for as long as he could, his face set like stone. It felt like minutes, but in reality, it was only a few seconds, before the soldier lost all composure and started violently trying to twist away from the drill, yelling louder the deeper it went. The sound sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. The combination of the whining tool as well as the anguished cries of his friend, made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. 

Unlike before, when they were using the sound of the tool to intimidate them, X did not have his finger hard pressed on the trigger. Rather than have the drill bore quickly through the man’s arm, the psychopath was doing his best to make sure the experience was as slow and painful for the doctor as possible. 

It became obvious when the metal piece finally reached John’s scapular. The drill started to struggle with the denser material and John’s screams became even louder. In all of his years on the force, he had heard many people scream for many different reasons. Screams of rage and of grief; screams of horror as well as pain; but never had he heard something as disturbing as this. John’s voice was straining and his whole body shook with the effort. Greg felt like his very soul was being torn in half and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

“STOP IT!” He roared at the three men surrounding his friend. “SHERLOCK, DO SOMETHING!”  
He was beside himself, trying to tear free of his restraints. The leather dug deeper into his skin as he continued to pull against the ties which held him to the chair. He looked over at Sherlock and noticed that the man had still failed to show any outward signs of emotion to the scene taking place in front of him. Greg’s gaze turned to one of pure rage. He didn’t understand how the man could just sit there and do nothing, while his friend was being tortured.

Without warning, X made a low growling sound and removed the drill piece from John’s shoulder.  
“Damn thing’s not long enough, I can’t get through the bone.” He quietly muttered to the room.  
“I wonder if there’s a longer one…” he continued, a little louder and almost casually. He strolled calmly back to the table by Sherlock’s side, presumably to hunt for more pieces.

John looked terrible. His head fell backwards, hitting the headrest as he slowly opened his eyes. Silent tears rolled down his face and his whole body trembled. He was breathing quite heavily and he looked to have paled significantly. His concern for his friend grew as he watched the man repeatedly bang his head against the back of his chair.  
“John?” He asked quietly, but he didn’t receive a response.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- John -***  
Getting shot in Afghanistan had been bad enough, but at least it had been quick. After the bullet first struck him, adrenaline had masked some of the initial pain. His body had later gone into shock and the same thing happened. Then of course there was the pure bliss of the morphine shot and the oblivion which came with unconsciousness. Unfortunately he was getting none of that now and it was pure torture. He could feel the agonising pain as the drill was slowly forced deeper and deeper into his body. He tried to push away, to break free of the hands holding him, but the pressure was too great; the pain too debilitating. He vaguely registered a horrifying scream echo around his head, but it scared him, so he tried to ignore it. 

John could feel the precise moment when the tool reached the bone. The pressure in his arm increased and the nerve fibres in his arm exploded in such an intense way, he started to see black dots in his vision. He prayed for it to end, to either pass out or die. It was only when he went to scream that he realised it was his own voice he could hear echoing around the room. This terrified him even more. The noise was so loud, it sounded like he was dying… maybe he was.  
The pressure and the speed of the drill suddenly increased as it was violently pushed further into his arm. Then just as quickly as the pressure had started, it disappeared and the drill was removed all together. 

He felt himself flop backwards on his chair, noticing for the first time that his eyes were closed. He could feel alien hands on his upper body, holding him tightly in place and he wondered what he had done to warrant such a punishment. When John opened his eyes, he was met with a confusing image - Sherlock Holmes tied to a chair, quietly watching him. It only took him a second to remember where he was and at that point he wished he hadn’t. He lifted his head slightly, then let it drop backwards against the chair, repeating the action over and over again in an effort to take his mind off the fire in his shoulder.

John could see X standing just to the side of Sherlock, rummaging around for something on the table. He didn’t know why he had stopped, or what he was doing; hell he couldn’t even remember him walking away. Perhaps Sherlock had finally said something, or maybe they had given up. Surely he had suffered enough for one day.  
“I think I’ve found one guys!” said an overly excited voice.  
John’s stomach dropped for the second time, as he watched X made his way back across the room, making the needed adjustments to the hand held tool. It was all making sense now; the reason why they had stopped - the drill piece wasn’t long enough and he wanted to get all the way through.  
This alarmed John in more than one way. As it stood at the moment, his shoulder would be in a bad way; but from a medical stand point, it was somewhat manageable. If the hole were to go all the way through his arm, that had the potential to cause many more problems; particularly in terms of maintaining blood volume and preventing infection. He watched the drill move back towards him and felt his breathing increase as his fear started to take over. 

“Sherlock...” he croaked out through his raw throat, pleading with his friend to intervene. If Sherlock hadn’t said anything yet, he was sure it was for a good reason. Having said that, he didn’t think he would be able to withstand another round with the drill, either physically or mentally.  
All the heads in the room turned to look at the stoic detective, who continued to stare silently.  
“Still nothing?” X asked with some surprise. When he received no answer, he turned back to John with a shrug. “Sorry doctor, he doesn’t seem interested.”  
X tested the drill a number of times, watching the tip rotate.  
“Sherlock… please…” John called out, louder this time.  
Sherlock met his gaze for a moment, and for the first time, John could see the hurt in the man’s eyes. Once again he searched for a message, but the only one he could find offered little comfort. It simply said ‘sorry’. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Lestrade -***  
John looked and sounded absolutely terrified and he was finding it incredibly hard not to explode with rage. He had to remind himself that if anyone could get through to the detective it would be John. The two men shared a brief glance before Sherlock simply sighed and looked towards the floor. A wave of panic passed over the doctor’s face, but Sherlock seemed to be oblivious. Lestrade couldn’t believe it. Surely the meaning of a few letters on a piece of paper wasn’t worth all of this.

X started up the drill again, this time on full power and as he drew closer to John, the doctor started to sob, making only a slight effort to break free.  
“SHERLOCK!!!” he yelled furiously. The man in question still didn’t say anything, but at least he looked up from the spot on the floor. He was hoping to see some sort of remorse on the man’s face, hell, any kind of emotion would have done, but there was still nothing. Desperately, he turned back to the three men.  
“STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING! SHERLOCK DO SOMETHING!!!”  
As loud as he was, no one was listening to Greg’s anguished shouts. He had already told them everything he knew about the case, but it still was not enough. It was clear that the only one who could stop them was Sherlock and he was still refusing to talk.  
Once again, X plunged the tool deep into John’s shoulder. A long agonizing scream echoed through the room, as the drill piece finally passed through the shoulder blade and back out through the skin, completing the narrow hole. 

The drill was cruelly moved back and forward a number of times before John thankfully passed out. It was only then, that the drill bit was finally removed from the man’s shoulder and John’s limp body slumped forward. Behind him on the chair’s backrest, a small hole could be seen from where the drill had burst back through the skin and into the timber. Blood was flowing freely on both sides of John’s body, it would not be long before the man went into shock.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Donovan -***  
Back at the hospital, Sally returned to the small, private room of Constable Raimes. It was quite early in the morning, so the officer was understandably still asleep. Feeling slightly guilty, Sally took the seat next to the bed and reached a hand out to touch the young man’s arm, calling his name softly as she did. It only took a second for the officer’s eyes to crack open and glance around, momentarily lost.  
“Sorry to disturb you Constable, do you remember who I am?”  
“Of course” he replied, still half asleep; “Sergeant Donovan”.  
Sally gave the man a warm smile before continuing.  
“Listen, I’m sorry to do this so early, but I need to find out what you can remember about the crime scene before it was destroyed. You said that you and your partner were the first responders to the 999 call?”  
“Yes ma’am… umm…”  
“Take your time.”  
“There were two men. Both had been shot; one in the head, the other in the stomach. It looked to me as if they had shot each other, but I only saw one gun.”  
“Any other information you can give me on the victims? perhaps a description?”  
“The one who had been shot in the head looked quite young. He was wearing a hoodie and loose pants; he kind of reminded me of my younger brother... I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the other guy if I’m honest. I was more concerned about securing the area.”  
“I understand” Sally replied slightly disappointed, recording what she could in a small note book. “If I gave you a piece of paper do you think you could draw what you remember of the layout of the scene and where the two bodies were located?”  
“I could try, but like I said before ma’am, you’d be better off talking to Collins about this. He’s been on the job longer than me, and he wants to become a detective one day. He’s always taking notes and trying to figure things out. He was the one who asked to stick around so he could have a better look, even talked to Lestrade about the crime scene for a bit too. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

As the Constable got to work, drawing what he could remember of the hotel room, Sally quickly filled him in on what they had discovered from the CCTV footage. The young man, like the rest of the officers involved, seemed quite upset by the new developments and wished he could do more to help. Although the amount of information Raimes was able to provide was quite basic, Sally left the room still hopeful. They had more information on the case now, than they did half an hour ago, and she was on her way see Sergeant Collins. She just hoped that he would awaken soon and that he would be able to shed some more light on their problem.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Lestrade -***  
Lestrade was thrown into a whirlwind of emotions. He was angry at the men who had caused such suffering and was furious at Sherlock for allowing it to happen. He was upset by the betrayal and sick to the stomach at the bloody wound on his friend’s body. He was worried and scared about what would happen next but most of all; he was concerned for the welfare of the unconscious man to his left. John had not deserved that. He was a doctor and a good man.  
He wanted to call out to him. Make him open his eyes, prove to him that he was okay, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. More than anything, it would have been selfish. At least while he was out of it, John would not feel the pain of the injury or the betrayal.

“Jatz get the bag” X called over to the youngest of the crew.  
Lestrade had completely forgotten about the young man still standing against the back wall. He had not yet participated in the group torture session but it looked like that was about to change. ‘Jatz’ moved to Sherlock’s side and picked up a plastic bag from off the table. The detective’s eyes watched the younger man closely as he walked towards the small group surrounding the unconscious doctor and tried to hand the bag to the man in charge.  
“No, it’s your turn now kiddo. Make sure they can both see.” X said quietly, pushing the bag back towards the younger man. Jatz looked down at the object in his hand then nodded slightly, moving around as not to obscure anyone’s vision. Frank and Rusty both patted the younger man on the shoulder then moved off to the side. Greg felt his heart race; this was starting to look like some sort of initiation. Jatz was the one responsible for Sherlock’s busted face, so clearly torture was not new to him, so what did that mean for John? 

His worst fears were answered a moment later, as he watched the plastic bag being forced over his friend’s head. X smiled and gave the youngster a small pat on the back, then pushed forward to address Sherlock for the last time.  
“The game is over now, this is it. You start cooperating or your friend will die.”  
John’s head was partially obscured through the bag, but he still appeared to be unconscious. His breathing was shallow but the plastic continued to move closer to his face. It would not be long before the air in the confined space would be gone and the man would start to suffocate.

“Sherlock for God’s sake, just tell them something! Anything!” He had just watched them drill a hole into John’s shoulder; he couldn’t bear the thought of watching him slowly die too. “Whatever it is, it’s not worth John’s life!”  
Sherlock looked over and shot him a dirty look.  
“I hardly think you are in a position to make that decision for me Lestrade. You don’t know how much value I place on John Watson’s life.”  
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? He’s your best friend!” he replied angrily.  
“He was my housemate” Sherlock replied with a shrug.  
“What do you mean, was?”  
“Is…” the detective corrected himself with a shrug, “not for much longer though by the looks of it…” 

Lestrade was absolutely dumbstruck. He looked back over to the source of their conversation and noticed that John was now awake. The man moved pathetically, trying to shake the bag free from his head, his breathes coming faster.  
“You disgust me!” Lestrade yelled back at the detective “Anderson was right you don’t care about anyone but yourself and you never have! I can’t believe even for one second, that I thought you were a decent man! You’re no better than this lot! If we ever get out of this, I swear on my mother’s grave that you will never work a case again!”  
“Well that’s very ambitious of you” Sherlock muttered.  
“Mark my word Sherlock Holmes! You don’t deserve someone like him. He would have taken a bullet for you! Are you really just going to sit here and watch him suffocate?!”  
“I’m not a monster Lestrade. I would get up and take the bag off his head if I could, but I’m currently tied up with other things at the moment.” This did nothing to improve the Inspector’s mood.  
“This is not a joke, just tell them something!”  
“And what would you like me to tell them?”  
“Anything!”  
“I’ve already told them everything I know, they don’t believe me” he replied quietly.  
“Of course they don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!” Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and looked back towards the struggling doctor. “Sherlock I’m serious! Just give them something, so this can stop!”  
“I can’t.”

He was shaking with rage. If looks could kill, then Sherlock would be nothing more than a pile of ash on the floor.  
In desperation, he turned his attention to X and all but begged to let the doctor go. He used every card he could think of, but none of it seemed to work. Resigned to the fact that there was nothing more he could do, Greg turned to watch his friend try to breath in what little air remained. A number of times he had wanted to look away, the fear on John’s face was almost too much to bear; but he would not miss the doctor’s final moments. He wanted his face to be the last thing that John saw before he died. Not the face of one of men who had caused him so much pain, but that of a friend.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- John -***  
The plastic moved closer and closer, sticking to his face and restricting his breathing. No matter how hard he tried, he could not help the panic which overtook him and he gasped desperately for the air which was no longer there.  
He knew this was it. There was no escaping. He would die in this room, with a hole in his shoulder and a bag over his head. As much as it scared him, he was almost glad that the pain would finally be over.  
With his last breath, he took one final look at the dark curly haired detective - his housemate and the best friend he had ever had. Tears fell from his eyes as his mouth filled with plastic and a few moments later, he felt himself fade away.


	8. Emotional Fallout

***- Lestrade -***  
“John?” Greg whispered.  
The last few minutes had without a doubt, been one of the most traumatic things Greg had ever experienced. The doctor’s desperate struggles for air as the plastic clung to his face will be an image which will stay with him for years to come.  
This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. John was a war hero; he didn’t deserve to die like this. He didn’t want to believe it; he must be having a nightmare. John couldn’t really be dead, there was no way. 

“John!” Lestrade repeated more forcibly this time, as if his tone alone could breathe new life into his friend. John however, remained completely still, his chest showed no signs of movement.  
He turned to stare at Sherlock who appeared to have frozen, eyes focused intently on his friend’s unmoving body.  
“I hope you’re happy” he growled viciously at him. “This is your fault!”  
Sherlock glanced at him for a fraction of a second before turning his attention once more to the motionless figure and the men standing behind him.

Another couple of seconds passed before X spoke up.  
“You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes” he said, taking a step forward.  
Without warning, he grabbed hold of the plastic bag and ripped it free from John’s head.  
“See if you can get him breathing again.” He ordered Rusty quietly with a flick of his hand.  
Greg’s heart caught in his chest as he peered into the peaceful face of John Watson. He could clearly see the small tears, which had fallen down the sickly pale cheeks and which were still pooled around his now closed eyes. The sight made him want to cry.

“… Put him in with the rest of the ice.”  
Greg only caught the end of X’s instructions, too caught up in his own emotions, but it was clear that the instructions were not for him. He turned and watched as Frank untied the restraints on the detective’s arms and guided the man out of the room. With a loud crash, they had disappeared through the heavy door. Sherlock had left without even looking back. It looked like he really didn’t care after all.

“Take the Inspector down to the cells and put him in number one.”  
With that, he felt the restraints on his own arms being loosened and he was pulled to his feet by the youngest of the men.  
“Wait please! Is he going to be okay?” He asked desperately.  
X glanced towards Rusty, who now appeared to be giving John CPR.  
“I don’t know… either way he’ll be down with you shortly.” He replied with a fake smile as Greg was pulled from the room.

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Sherlock -***  
Sherlock remained quiet as he was marched away, not noticing where he going. His mind struggled to process what had just happened.  
The smell of Lestrade’s burning flesh…  
The noise of the power drill as it dug into John’s shoulder…  
The blood…  
The screams…  
The silence…

__

_“John?” Lestrade whispered._  
_He stared at the unmoving body of his best friend, his mind racing with calculations of how long the human body can go without oxygen._  
_How long would it take to get the man breathing again?_  
_How long would it take for them to react, if and when he spoke?_  
_How long before permanent damage was done?_  
_And how long before it would all be too late?_  
_He couldn’t be certain of any of these things, he would have to estimate. It would be an educated guess, but still just a guess. Not a very comforting notion when someone’s life was at stake._  
_“I hope you’re happy” Lestrade growled viciously at him. “This is your fault!”  
_ _He still couldn’t look at the Inspector; there was too much anger in his eyes._

__

_Five seconds.  
_ _That’s how long he had, five seconds. Five more seconds and he would talk…_

__

_Four seconds.  
_ _What if he was wrong? What if they didn’t know first aid? It might take them longer..._

__

_Three seconds.  
_ _He was going to have to say something. He shouldn’t have let it go this far, what was he thinking?!_

_Two seconds._

__

__

__

_“You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes” X said, taking a step forward and ripping the bag from John’s head._  
_It took all of his remaining will power not to react to the overwhelming sense of relief he now felt flood through his body._  
_“See if you can get him back” X continued. Rusty leant down to check for breathing, while he tried to appear uninterested. The truth was, he felt sick to the stomach and was on the verge of breaking. Just because they had removed the bag did not guarantee that John would be okay. His mind raced with new calculations._  
_How long had he already gone without oxygen?_  
_How much time did they have to get him breathing again?_  
_He stared into John’s face and tried to ignore the numerous tear tracks and the blue tinge to his lips.  
_ _There was still time._

____

__

_“Take him down to the freezer and put him in with the rest of the ice,” X instructed._  
_Sherlock felt his heart start to race. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving; he had to know if John was going to be alright. He felt his arms come free of the restraints and for a second he entertained the thought of trying to fight his way out. One look at John however, took that option off the table. Rusty had him on his back and looked to be performing CPR. He couldn’t jeopardise John’s life any more than he already had._  
___He continued to stare, praying that he would see that spark of life return; to see John open his eyes and take a deep breath. Instead he saw X move into his line of sight, a cold look on his face. He leant in and quietly spoke in a deep and menacing voice.  
__“Let me make this perfectly clear. The ONLY reason I’m allowing this, is because as a doctor, he may still prove useful. Don’t think for a second that I would feel even an ounce of remorse if he never wakes up. In fact, I’m really hoping he doesn’t; that way I can sit him in your cell as he slowly decomposes. He’ll be a constant reminder of how you failed him and of what happens to people who don’t cooperate. Have a little think about that, when you’re locked away in the cold.”___

______ _ _

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts as he felt himself come to a halt. Frank opened the door to what looked like an industrial freezer and he felt himself being pushed towards it. Thankfully, it wasn’t too cold; it must still be reaching its minimum temperature. That offered him little comfort though, when Frank slammed the door shut, throwing him into complete darkness. He listened to a bolt being locked in place and the footsteps disappear down the hall. He was once again alone, with only his thoughts for company, and the sounds of industrial fans blowing cold air on him.

For the first time since the whole ordeal started, Sherlock allowed the well constructed walls of his mind to collapse. The weight of what he had seen, of what he had allowed to transpire, came crashing down on top of him.  
He punched and kicked at the door with unrestrained anger, yelling until his throat felt raw; lashing out, until he fell with exhaustion. Eventually, he found himself sitting on the cold floor with his head in his hands and tears streaming down his face. He kept picturing John lying on the ground, still tied to his chair. Blood pooling around his shoulder as Rusty pushed against his chest. What had he done?  
If John wasn’t alive, he would never forgive himself.

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Lestrade -***  
The walk to the cell block had been very quiet, with neither Greg nor his captor uttering a single word. When they arrived at their destination, Jatz opened the door and pushed him inside, locking it up behind him. He decided to take the opportunity to try to talk to the lad. He was clearly the weakest link in the group, perhaps he could talk him around.  
“It’s Jatz, isn’t it?” The young man froze for a second and then looked up with a smile.  
“Sure, why not.”  
“Listen mate, you don’t have to do this. You’re not like those other blokes, I can see you don’t really want to be here. Let me help you. Just let me make a phone call, I’ll put in a good word, get you a good deal.”  
“Nice try copper” he replied quietly as he turned to walk away.  
“Wait! Please just… John… Doctor Watson… Is he going to be alright?”  
Jatz paused for a second but did not turn around.  
“Rusty’s done this sort of thing before” he replied quietly; and with that the young man disappeared.

The first thing he thought of, when glancing around the room, was that it could have been an office in a former life. Unlike the previous areas he had been in, this one had painted walls and appeared to have had carpet in it at some point. The door had been replaced with a metal frame and a series of vertical rods, which made it look like a cell out of an old 70’s movie. He could see a window and a doorway to the right, which lead to the room next door. The glass had been removed and a number of metal bars had been installed in both spaces, creating two separate cells. Looking around, Greg could see a single, moth eaten mattress which had been pushed into the back corner against the wall. To the left of this, lay a basic metal basin and a toilet. Looking through the gaps, he noticed that the neighbouring room looked almost identical, except for the extra barred window and doorway leading to what was no doubt a third cell. He couldn’t help but wonder just how many cells there were down here.

With little else to do but wait and worry, Greg stumbled over and slumped down on the mattress, his back against the cool wall. He briefly entertained the notion of cleaning some of his wounds but found that he couldn’t; not until he knew if John would be alright.  
He tried not to think about where they had taken Sherlock; if he was honest he didn’t really care that much anyway.  
_‘He deserves everything he gets!’ _he thought bitterly to himself. In fact, if he could, he would take a drill to the man’s shoulder himself, just to show him what it felt like.__

____

He couldn’t sit anymore; the waiting was killing him. He stood up and walked back over to the main door, trying to peer down the corridor with little success. He then started pacing. Five steps side to side and seven back to front. It was at this point, that the corridor door creaked open and Frank came storming in.  
“Get back.” The man growled in a threatening voice.  
He took a couple of small steps backwards as Frank unlocked the door and walked straight up to him. Any thoughts of escape were instantly forgotten as John was then carried in, dangling between the arms of Rusty and Jatz. They deposited him roughly on the old mattress and then turned to leave. John was still not moving.  
“Is he okay?”  
“Shut up!” Rusty growled as the three men exited, slamming the door and locking them both in.  
Greg rushed to his friend’s side, one hand searched for a pulse while the other rested gently on his chest. He leaned his ear towards the doctor’s face, looking for signs of life. 

Tears rushed from his eyes as he felt his hand move up and down, in time with the weak breathes he felt, coming from John’s mouth. He was alive.

Greg rolled on to his back and gazed up at the ceiling. He allowed himself 30 seconds to break down. He had been so focused on his anger that he had managed to suppress all of his other emotions. It was only now that he let them show. His fear, pain and relief came pouring out of him, and for once, he let it.  
After his 30 seconds were up, Greg took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his attention back to his unconscious friend. John may be alive for now, but if he didn’t see to his shoulder and stop the bleeding, that may not be the case for much longer.

“John?” He wanted desperately to see the man’s blue eyes again.  
“John?” He said a little louder this time, shaking him gently.  
“Mmmm” It wasn’t much, but it was the greatest sound that he had ever heard.  
“John?” He asked for the third time and the man’s eyes slowly fluttered open. Greg couldn’t help the ridiculous smile which passed over his face.  
“Are you okay? Well obviously you’re not, how could you be but… How bad is it?” Lestrade asked quietly, not really knowing if he wanted an honest answer or not.  
“I… I think I’m gonna… pass out now…” John whispered, before his head rolled to the side and he went completely still. Greg didn’t blame him. In many ways, he wished he could do the same. If for no other reason than to be oblivious of the situation for a little while. 

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Sherlock -***  
_He didn’t say anything; he couldn’t no matter what they were doing._  
_Frank lent down and grabbed the little finger on Lestrade’s right hand and violently twisted…  
_ _He tried to concentrate on blocking out all incoming data, including the slight smell of burning flesh and the pained moans coming from Lestrade’s general direction. He was determined not to say anything._

____

The memories swirled around his head like a whirlpool. He felt as if he were drowning.

__

_“I did some research on you, Doctor Watson…”_  
_“Have you ever been shot Mr Holmes?”_  
_“I have always been curious as to what it would feel like to be shot in slow motion…”_  
_X picking up the cordless drill. John’s panic-stricken face._  
_“I always considered myself a handy man…”  
_ _The sound of the drill._

Sherlock felt sick. It was like being stuck a bad dream, only worse.  
He could remember every detail with nauseating clarity.

__

__

_The drill started and Sherlock could feel a huge lump form in his throat. He had been starting to second guess his course of action, but after the response to John’s confession, he was even more determined to remain silent, no matter what happened. No matter how much it hurt him to do so, he would keep up the act._

__

__

__

_“You don’t need to do this! Put it down! He’s told you everything he knows!!!” Lestrade screamed._  
_“Come on Mr Holmes, you know that I will follow through with this. Just tell me what I want to know and it can all stop...”_  
_He rolled his eyes and thought carefully about how he should respond. He didn’t want to say anything at all, but he had to keep up the act. If they thought for a second that he cared, it would all be in vain and they’d torture John anyway. He just hoped they would understand when the time came._  
_“I don’t care what you do to them; I have said everything I intend to say on the matter.”_  
_The look he received from both John and Lestrade felt worse than anything Jatz had done to him. The_  
_Look of hurt and betrayal cut deeper than any knife could.  
_ _“So be it.”_

The sounds of John’s scream echoed around his head. He pulled at his hair, trying to distract himself from the memory, but he found that the more he tried to ignore the sound, the louder it got. The room was getting steadily colder and Sherlock found himself shaking, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that it was from the drop of temperature anymore.

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Lestrade -***  
Lestrade removed his thick jacket and dropped it by his side. Then, taking off his long sleeve shirt, he proceeded to rip both the arms off at the seam. Lastly, he removed his white singlet before redressing himself in the remaining shirt and jacket. In no time at all, he had managed to fashion a number of makeshift bandages and cloths out of the torn material. It took almost all of his strength to then remove John’s clothes from his upper body before getting to work on cleaning and dressing the man’s numerous wounds. The shoulder was off course the main priority, as it was still bleeding quite noticeably. He placed a wad of material behind the shoulder and pushed against the wound with another. John stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed.  
He stayed that way, watching the white material around his hands slowly turn red; hoping above all else, that he could stop the slow flow sooner rather than later.  
Eventually, he reached the point where he could wrap the wound in the crude bandages. It was a further ten minutes or so after that, before John finally stirred.  
Greg had been cleaning the cut on John’s forehead, when he noticed the man’s eyes slowly flutter open. He blinked a number of times in confusion, before a look of recognition passed over his face.  
“Greg?”  
“Hey buddy. How’re you feeling?”  
“Hurts” John whispered as he closed his eyes again.  
“Yeah, I know” he replied sadly.  
After, he finished wiping the dried blood and sweat away from John’s face, Lestrade tossed the stained rag back into the wash basin and sank to the floor. He was absolutely exhausted and still in a lot of pain himself. He hadn’t had the opportunity to see to his own wounds yet, his attention too occupied with John’s needs. Now that he did have the time, he didn’t know whether he would have the strength or the energy. 

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

***- Donovan -***  
When Sally arrived at Collins’ room, she was surprised to find the man not only awake, but talking to the doctor. After giving her apologies, she waited outside for about three minutes before being informed that she could go in. Collins had suffered a severe concussion but appeared to be functioning quite well, all things considered. Sally was further surprised when upon entering the small room, the man in the bed appeared to already know who she was.  
“Sergeant Donovan?”  
She frantically searched her memory banks but came up blank. They must have run into each other at the station or at a crime scene but she couldn’t place him. The two talked for a short time, exchanging polite conversation about how he was feeling and about how Raimes was doing before getting down to business.  
“Sergeant, I hate to do this to you first thing in the morning but I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you some questions about what happened last night.”  
“I have a few questions about last night myself. What happened?”  
“What was the last thing you remember?”  
“I… I saw a group of men come running in from outside holding guns. I went to call for backup and then… I guess I got hit. Did I get the call out?”  
“I’m afraid not. We arrived on scene after an explosion was reported. You and your partner were found unconscious in the lobby along with the owner. By the time we got there, the building was on fire. As far as we can tell there were no casualties, however D.I. Lestrade and two other men have been abducted and the original crime scene has been completely destroyed.”  
Donovan gave the man a few seconds to process the information. It was a lot to take in after having just woken up a short time ago.  
“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?”  
“Yes, did you know them?”  
“I’ve seen them at a few different scenes, but we’re usually moved away when they arrive. Wouldn’t say I know them, but I know who they are.” Sally just nodded; she knew that feeling all too well.  
“We think the attack was all part of a cover up, so we need to gather as much information as possible on the original crime scene. We’re hoping that it may lead us to the people who have Lestrade and the others. I’m looking for any information you can give me about the two victims and the scene itself. I understand you were first on scene?”  
“Yeah that’s right.”  
“I’m also led to believe that you spent sometime in the room talking to Lestrade. I need to know anything he may have told you about the case.”  
“Of course; anything I can do to help. Where would you like me to start?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

__***- Sherlock -***  
_The drill moved painfully slow and John’s screams cut at his heart._  
_“STOP IT! SHERLOCK, DO SOMETHING!”  
_ _He didn’t want to, but he tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him to take a look at the Inspector. Lestrade was beside himself, trying to tear free of the restraints. The look he shot Sherlock was one of pure rage. He couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, there was too much hatred in his eyes, too much pain…_

__

_“Sherlock...”  
_ _He looked up into the pleading eyes of his friend and felt physically ill. It was alarming how much blood John had already lost and how pale he looked as he sat shaking in his seat, still being held in place by their captors. As much as he would have loved to bring a stop to John’s pain, he knew he couldn’t say anything. As ridiculous as it may sound, it was for his own good. At least he hoped it was…_

__

_“Sherlock… please…”_  
_He had heard numerous people plead with him over the years, but hearing John Watson do it was gut wrenching. He didn’t know what was worse, the begging, the ear piercing screams, or the pained animal cries he would sometimes make. He had tried to block them out but found that he couldn’t anymore, and he felt like a piece of him was slowly dying because of it._  
_“SHERLOCK!!!” Lestrade yelled._  
_The tool plunged deep into John’s shoulder.  
_ _A long agonizing scream echoed through the room, as the drill piece finally passed through the shoulder blade and back out through the skin, completing the narrow hole._

__

It was too much, all too much. And the worst thing was, it may have all been in vain. He thought back to Rusty trying to pump life back into his friend. His friend who had tear tracks running down his face and who had looked so scared yet acted so bravely. He wished above all else that John was alright. He was terrified that his gamble had not paid off and that he had lost the most valuable thing he had ever had... Lestrade was right; he didn’t deserve a friend like him.

__


	9. A Guilty Conscious

***- Lestrade -***  
“Greg?”  
He opened his eyes, not entirely sure when exactly he had closed them.  
“Yeah?”  
“Where’s Sherlock?” He was momentarily speechless. That was not something he was expecting to hear.  
“Are you serious? Do you remember what he did to you? Did to us?” John shook his head.  
“He didn’t do anything to us, they did.”  
“Yeah, because of him! You didn’t hear what he said… when they put that bag on your head…” Lestrade felt himself choking up at the memory. “I don’t care where he is and neither should you.” John shook his head again.  
“He would have had his reasons.”  
“You almost died John! I thought for a long time that you had. You have a bloody hole in your arm! He sat there and let them do that. Let them burn me and break my fingers. That was him! He’s the only one that could have stopped them and he chose not to. You know the worst part? He didn’t even look sorry.”  
John was quiet for a full minute and Lestrade thought the conversation was over.  
“You’re wrong, he was sorry.”  
Greg sighed. “John listen...”  
“You didn’t see his face. Just before they finished the… hole… I’ve never seen him look like that… He was sorry.”  
It was Greg’s turn to be silent.  
Even if John was right and Sherlock was sorry, it didn’t excuse what he did.

“I don’t know where he is” he eventually said. “They took him away when you were unconscious… I haven’t seen him since.”  
“How long ago was that?”  
“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, “half an hour maybe.”  
John looked worried, but with no other information Lestrade could do little to comfort the man, choosing instead to change the subject.  
“How’s your shoulder feeling? I did my best to patch you up, but you might want to take a look yourself a little later on. I’m no doctor after all,” he said with a small smile.  
“I’m sure you did a great job. How about you? How are you feeling?”  
“Better than you I’m guessing.”  
“How’s your hand?”  
“I’m not gonna lie, my fingers are killing me. I was going to try and straighten them, but I thought I should probably wait for you.”  
“Okay, let me have a look.”

Greg held out his right arm, and tried not to stare at the twisted digits. It made him feel nauseous every time he did. John poked and prodded for several minutes, while he clenched his teeth and tried to remain still.  
“Do you want the good news, or the bad news first?”  
“Bad.”  
“Okay; it looks like your ring finger is probably only dislocated, but I can’t be sure until I straighten it out. The little one’s definitely broken, and it’s not receiving enough blood. I’ll need to do a lot of manipulating to try and fix it. We have no pain killers so… It’s going to hurt… a lot.”  
Greg nodded, he had guessed as much.  
“So, what’s the good news?”  
“You’re here with a doctor? Sorry, there isn’t really any.”  
“Great.”  
“We should do this now, before it gets any worse.”

They used the closed lid of the toilet as a table and knelt down either side of it. He laid his arm across the smooth surface, while John explained what he was going to do. The doctor only really had use of his one good hand; his other gripped weakly at his jacket collar, trying to take as much pressure as possible off his injured shoulder. John stressed how important it would be that Greg remained as still as possible for both their sakes.  
When he felt ready, he gave John a silent nod and the doctor took hold of his ring finger and started to force it back into position. He grinded his teeth and hit the wall with his free hand to try and control the powerful instinct to pull away. It didn’t take long before the finger looked straight and John was checking it over.  
“Looks good. One down, one to go.”  
With that, the doctor moved on to the little finger, which stuck out at an alarming angle. After only a few seconds of manipulation, the pain became too much for him.  
“Stop! Stop, stop.”  
He pulled his hand away and had just enough time to open the toilet lid before he was throwing up. John moved around to rub small circles in his back as his body continued to betray him. After a few minutes, he sat back down and took a couple of deep breaths. He was trembling and still felt sick.  
“You ready to give it another go?” John asked quietly.  
“I just need a minute.” He whispered back. God how he wished he could just pass out.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Donovan -***  
Several hours after entering Sergeant Tony Collins’ hospital room, Sally left with a treasure trove of information. Raimes was not exaggerating when he said that his partner wanted to be a detective, and from what she just saw, he would be a fantastic addition to the team. He could explain in detail, the appearance of both victims, as well as the layout of the room. He even went as far as drawing his own interpretation of the scene; a far more detailed version than that of Constable Raimes. She now had some idea of who the victims were, and that they had likely shot each other. Best of all, she now had an ID. Collins was able to tell her that the older victim’s name was Tony Roberts and that he was a software designer from Leeds. Lestrade had found a wallet on the man’s body shortly after arriving. In one of the man’s pocket, he had also discovered a coded note, which the two men had apparently spent some time trying to decipher. When she asked the officer if he could remember what was written on the note she was disappointed to only get the first small section.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember the whole thing, but I do know that it started with ‘TL Esc’. It also had the word ‘head’ in it, but that’s about it I’m afraid; the rest would just be a guess.”  
“TL ESC? Are you sure?”  
“No no no. ‘TL Esc’. You know, like the escape button on a keyboard.”  
“Did you or Lestrade have any idea as to what the message might be trying to say?”  
“Not really. It was written with a mixture of numbers as well as lower and uppercase letters. We thought it was probably on purpose but we couldn’t be sure. It was the ‘Esc’ that had us curious; because of the specific way it was written and the fact that the victim was a software designer. We thought that they might have been computer instructions. It was just a thought though; Lestrade said he would get someone to look at it later.”

With only a partial message it was going to be difficult to find out what it really meant and if it had any relevance to the case. Even so, putting that aside, she was over the moon with the information Collins gave her. She felt like kissing the man when she said her farewells. Now that she had one of the victim’s names, it would simply be a matter of looking him up. She got on her phone and made a call to the station.  
“Yeah its Donovan, I need someone to run a background check on a Mr Tony Roberts. He’s been identified as being a software designer from Leeds. I need as much information as you can find on him, it’s a priority.” With that she hung up her phone and called DI Dimmock, whom she asked to meet at the Skyridge Hotel. The forensic unit should be there by now and she wanted to compare notes on the crime scene. Hopefully they would be able to start piecing this all together very soon. 

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
_The plastic bag shrunk closer to his best friend’s face, and his mind raced with barely suppressed panic._  
_“Sherlock for God’s sake, just tell them something! Anything! Whatever it is, it’s not worth John’s life!”_  
_He looked over at Lestrade and made his decision. No matter how difficult it would be, he would stick to the plan… for now.  
_ _“I hardly think you are in a position to make that decision for me Lestrade. You don’t know how much value I place on John Watson’s life.”_

Even now, just thinking of the words cut him deep.

__

_“He was my housemate” he said with a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant._  
_“What do you mean was?”_  
_“Is… not for much longer though by the looks of it…”_  
_He had gone too far, he knew that, but it was something he had to do. He didn’t think there was any coming back from this now but if it worked, then he wouldn’t care._  
_“You disgust me!” Lestrade yelled back at him. The intensity of Lestrade’s anger was making for a very heated conversation, one which Sherlock hoped would pay off. “… You don’t deserve someone like him. He would have taken a bullet for you!”_  
_The truth of that sentence hurt. He knew that John would do anything to help him, to protect him. Hell, the man had killed for him. Lestrade was right._  
_“This is not a joke, just tell them something!”_  
_“And what would you like me to tell them?” He was almost desperate. In a way, he wanted Lestrade to talk him around. He had never felt so conflicted in his life. He was fighting the biggest internal battle he had ever had. One half of his mind screamed to put an end to it all. The other side, the logical side, continued to stress the importance of keeping up the charade. Reminding what was left of his rational mind, exactly what would happen if he let it all fall apart now. It was a huge bluff, but one he had to stick with._  
_“Sherlock I’m serious! Just give them something, so this can stop!”_  
_“I can’t.”  
_ _He knew in that moment, that any relationship he may have had with Lestrade was now officially over and he was surprised to realise just how much that upset him._

__

_John turned to look at him, eyes wide as he struggled to breath. The plastic filled his friend’s mouth and moments later, the man fell still._  
_He felt his heart stop. He felt sick._  
_“John?” Lestrade whispered.  
_ _He stared at the unmoving body of his best friend, his mind racing with calculations of how long the human body can go without oxygen…_

It was like the whole thing was stuck on repeat, the events playing over and over again in his head taunting him with ‘what ifs’. Hurting him with the memories of the sights and of the sounds.

__

“SHERLOCK DO SOMETHING!”

__

He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his head in his lap, trying to maintain some of his body heat. The room seemed to be getting colder and colder with each passing minute. He knew he had to pull himself together. Not just for his own sake, but in case the others returned. If they saw him like this, it would break his cover, and while he suspected from X’s last comment, that the man knew he wasn’t entirely unaffected by John’s condition; it would be best for all involved if he didn’t know to what extent. He took a few deep breathes and tried to calm himself as he entered into his mind palace. There he got to work sorting through the memories, trying hard to separate each event from the connecting emotions. John would be fine, he told himself. He had to be. It was John.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- John -***  
After straightening and splinting Greg’s fingers as best he could, John had spent the next several minutes inspecting the numerous cuts and burns on his friend’s arm. Between the two of them, they were able to clean and dress the worst of them with what basic materials they had. As a result, his shoulder once again felt like it was on fire. Pain radiated down his arm and into his chest, making every movement agonising. He started to consider looking at his own injury. He knew that he should, but he really didn’t want to either. He made up many excuses as to why it would be best to simply leave it alone.  
Because he didn’t want to restart the bleeding.  
Because they didn’t have any more ‘clean bandages’ to use.  
Because it would make the area more susceptible to infection.  
Because it would hurt a lot and most likely freak him out…  
Besides, Lestrade would have dealt with injuries in the field before. It wasn’t that difficult to clean and cover a wound…  
As much as he tried to convince himself that he didn’t need to check on it, he knew that he had to… just not right now. In the end the real reason that he didn’t look was because he was quite simply too exhausted. He had been awake for over 24 hours and had, in that time, been tortured and nearly killed. Looking over at his fellow cell mate, he could see Greg’s eye’s also struggling to stay open.

Even though there was only one small mattress, it was quickly decided that they would both share it. He lay down first, with his head to the back of the room, his injured shoulder propped protectively up against the wall. Lestrade soon slipped in beside him, so the men were laying head to toe on the small and narrow space. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, however within 30 seconds, he felt his eyes begin to close.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
Sherlock had finally managed to bring most of his thoughts back under control, filing them away in the different recesses of his mind. He could feel his eyes growing heavier as he struggled to stay awake in the now freezing temperatures. He didn’t know how long he had been in there, his mind having been too occupied for the majority of it, but he recognised the early stages of hypothermia. He could feel the cold seeping into his bone, chilling him from the inside out. It was a feeling that he would never be warm again. His mind was becoming cloudy, his thoughts sluggish.  
Suddenly a light turned on, filling his former pitch-black compartment with a blinding brightness. He squinted and tried to shield his eyes but was prevented from doing so, as warm but rough hands pulled him to his feet. It was at that point, that he decided to simply pass out.

He came to not long after, but still had the presence of mind not to alert them to this fact. With any luck, they would dump him somewhere where he could rest for a few hours. Keeping his eyes closed and his body limp, the two men who had hold of him continued down the hall. A short time later he was dropped onto a hard floor and left alone. He could hear a loud crash of a door being shut and locked, but he remained still until the sounds of footsteps had completely disappeared into the distance. Still unsure of where he was, he was hesitant to open his eyes. He could hear noises coming from somewhere nearby and was wary about what that could mean. In the end, it was his body which betrayed him yet again. He was already still shivering from the cold and was finding his current position unbearable. The movement to curl in on himself was automatic, a survival instinct, which in the end he had little control over. Nothing happened at first and Sherlock thought he may have gotten away with it, but then he heard it. He heard his name. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Lestrade -***  
Greg was startled awake by the sound of a door crashing in the distance and a number of footsteps moving towards them down the hall. He sat up in a panic, glancing down at John who was still fast asleep at his side. His mind raced with different scenarios, each just as horrifying as the next. What else could the men possibly have in stall for them?  
‘Perhaps it would be nothing to worry about. Maybe they were just coming to check on them.’ He though optimistically to himself; but that avenue of wishful thinking disappeared quickly, as he identified at least three sets of footprint moving towards the cells. They would not need all three lackeys to simply check on them. Something more sinister was about to go down and the idea terrified him. His hand and arm were still throbbing and burning from the last encounter he had with the gang, and then of course there was John…  
John.  
He knew in that moment that he would do what he could to protect his friend. He slowly got to his feet and moved towards the entrance, putting himself between the door and the sleeping doctor. If they wanted to get to John, they would have to go through him first. While the idea of being tortured again scared the hell out of him, the idea of being left here alone bothered him even more. If he let them take John, he doubted he would ever see the man again. The doctor would not survive another interrogation like the last one.

As the sounds of footsteps grew nearer, Greg unconsciously held his breath, trying to prepare himself for what was about to come. He watched closely as Jatz came into sight and then walked straight past him to the second cell.  
“What’s going on?” He asked the young man quietly; but before he had a chance to answer, Rusty and Frank walked it with an unconscious Sherlock slung between them. They moved into the centre of the neighbouring cell then let the man go; causing the detective to drop in a boneless heap on the cold, concrete floor. The two men then exited the room and Jatz locked the door behind them before all three disappeared back down the corridor without saying a word. 

The room was completely silent as Lestrade looked critically at the still detective. From his angle the man looked to be in relatively good shape, except for the fact that his entire body trembled uncontrollably. He thought back to when they had taken Sherlock away. He had thought he had heard X mention something about ice. Greg felt his stomach flip; _‘they hadn’t put him in a freezer for all that time had they?’  
_ It was about then that he realised, as frustrating as it was, that no matter how much he hated Sherlock right now, he did still care about the man.

Once the footsteps had faded into the distance and the detective had still not moved, Greg started to become worried. He looked back towards John and briefly considered waking him up but then decided against it. There was nothing he would be able to do from their side of the wall anyway and besides, the man needed to rest.  
He heard movement coming from the neighbouring cell and his attention was once again drawn back to Sherlock who slowly curled himself into the foetal position. Perhaps he was awake after all.  
“Sherlock?” He asked quietly.  
A second passed in silence before the man in question rolled onto his back and sat up, eyes searching desperately for the source of the voice.  
“Lestrade…” 

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
When he first heard his name, he thought he was imagining it. He had been hearing Lestrade say his name over and over again for the last… God knows how long. This time it was different though. It didn’t hold any anger or desperation; rather it was a questioning tone, almost caring. Could it be?  
He rolled onto his back and sat up, eyes searching wildly for the source of the sound. He felt his heart soar when he spotted the Inspector staring at him through a barred window.  
“Lestrade” he whispered, both in astonishment and disbelief.  
His joy was quickly replaced by suspicion, as a number of questions flew through his mind. _‘Why was he here? Why so close to Lestrade? Why not somewhere else?’_  
He quickly jumped to his feet and began to frantically search the small room, looking for any signs of recording devices; taking in the layout of the room as he went. As he drew closer to the window, he paused for a second. Through the gap he caught sight of his very still and pale looking friend, lying prone on a small mattress. He wanted nothing more than to know if he was alright, but he couldn’t ask; at least not right away.  
Pulling himself away from the window he continued his search, moving closer to inspect the toilet and basin. What he saw there made him freeze. Attached the underside of the sink was a small audio recording device, about the size of a USB flash drive. He felt his heart sink once again as he realised that he would have to be careful with what he said from this point on. The test was not over yet and he could not afford to let it all fall apart now. Too much had been lost already, and there was still too much on the line.  
He walked over to the bars where he could clearly see Lestrade’s glaring figure. He wouldn’t be able to give the man an explanation or an apology like he so desperately wanted; but recorder or not, he had to find out about John. With that in mind, he said the only thing that he could think of.  
“So I see your still in one piece then. What about John, is he alive?” He asked as casually as possible, keeping his tone even.  
“Like you care” Lestrade snarled.  
Sherlock got as close to the bars as possible, trying to see around the Inspector to the figure lying on the mattress.  
“Yes or no?”  
“…Yes,” Lestrade snapped, after some hesitation. “No thanks to you!”  
He slowly nodded and then turned to walk away, his relief overwhelming. Although he desperately needed to speak with both Lestrade and John, now was not the time. He would have to wait until he was sure that ‘plan B’ had well and truly ended and for now, that meant saying very little. He was so dreadfully cold that all really wanted to do was crawl into a ball and sleep, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon if Lestrade got his way.  
“Is that it?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”  
Lestrade’s volume was getting louder and as he turned back around, he could see John starting to stir. His heart started to race. He badly wanted to see the man; to talk to him, see if he was okay; but at the same time, he was anxious at the idea. What would he look like? What would he say? What could he, himself say? It would be better for all concerned if John would just stay asleep for a little while longer. Unfortunately, it was not working out that way.  
“You’re not even going to ask how he is? The man, who despite ALL of this, KEEPS STICKING UP FOR YOU!”

__

_“Sherlock… please”_  
_The drill…_  
_The screams…_  
_The blood…_  
_The bag…_  
_The pleading eye’s…  
_ _The silence…_

He quickly swallowed down the lump in his throat and turned his head away. That was definitely not a comment that he was ever expecting to hear.  
“Of course, you’re right. How is he?” He asked quietly, yet earnestly.  
“Piss off!”  
Figuring that it was as good a time as any, he turned his back towards Lestrade and started to walk over towards his own mattress. If he could not communicate with the others, then his next priority would be to try to raise his internal body temperature and to try to get some sleep. He did not know when he would next get the opportunity, so he had to make the most of it, even if it meant putting the two men in the cell next door, further off side. He needed to prioritise things and the truth was, that he desperately needed to rest.  
“Oi! You can’t just walk away from this Sherlock! You need to explain what the HELL is going on!”  
“Greg?” came a small voice from somewhere behind him. “What’s going on?”  
Sherlock froze, wanting desperately to both walk away and turn around at the same time.  
“It’s Sherlock,” the Inspector said in a low growl.  
“What?” the man asked in astonishment. He could hear the sounds of shuffling as John quickly got to his feet. “Sherlock?”  
Eventually the need to see John for himself won out over the need to get warm, as he turned to face his best friend. His eyes quickly scanned the man’s body as he had already done with Lestrade only minutes before.  
Sunken eyes and pale face show signs of significant blood loss. He had numerous cuts and bruises to his face which had been carefully cleaned. His shoulder was now covered but the creases around his eyes, the slight clench in his teeth and the slow and careful way in which he moved, all indicated that the man was still in an incredible amount of pain. In true John Watson fashion though, he was trying not to let it show.  
“Hello John,” he said after a small pause. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive.”  
The room once again fell into awkward silence as both men waited for him to continue.  
He didn’t.


	10. Tensions High

***- John -***  
John was used to this sort of tone from Sherlock, but the lack of emotion in his voice still hurt. He waited for him to continue; to ask him if he was alright. To show some form of concern towards them or offer some kind of explanation, but he remained quiet. He glanced over at Greg who simply shrugged. The Inspector’s whole body radiated anger and he didn’t blame him.  
“Are you okay?” He asked the detective after another couple of seconds; noticing for the first time that the man was shivering badly despite holding himself quite tightly.  
“Fine,” he replied nonchalantly.  
“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.  
“Doing what?”  
He suddenly found that he didn’t have the patience for this anymore. Sherlock sounded like he did back in the room when they were asking him about notes and missing people. It was bad enough that he did it then, considering the repercussions it had on Greg and himself but they deserved better than that, particularly after all they had been through.  
“I’m sick of this Sherlock, start talking. I need to understand this. I need to know what is going on and why this is happening.”  
“What makes you think I know anymore than you?” Sherlock asked casually and John felt his blood start to boil.  
“Oh cut the crap Sherlock and tell us what’s going on!” Lestrade exploded.  
“I can’t. Not right now.” He replied quietly, looking over his shoulder to glance at the area around the toilet and basin.  
“And what the hell does that mean?!”  
“Just what I said, I can’t right now.” He repeated calmly.  
“And why the bloody hell not?!” Lestrade was red with anger, his voice coarse with yelling. “You let them burn and taser me!”  
“I know.”  
“You let them break my fingers!” Sherlock sighed, a sad look on his face.  
“I know.”  
“They DRILLED A HOLE in John’s shoulder!”  
“I know!”  
“THEN WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU DO ANYTHING?!”  
“Because there was more at stake than just…” Sherlock started to answer, before he stopped himself and looked away.  
“Than just what? What does that mean?” Lestrade asked after a while but Sherlock remained silent.  
“What could possibly be more important Sherlock? They almost killed John. ”  
“I know Lestrade, I was there.” Sherlock replied, looking back up at the inspector who was shaking his head.  
“You’re unbelievable.” Greg said after a second, all signs of anger now gone. “That’s it John, I’m done. I’m sorry I’m not wasting anymore of my time or emotions on him. Do yourself a favour and do the same.” He said in a resigned tone as he turned and walked back towards the mattress, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

“I don’t understand this Sherlock. You’ve got to explain this to me, because I am not getting it.” He said quietly to the downcast looking detective.  
“I can’t” he said turning back to stare towards the sink before once again making eye contact. “Maybe later.”  
That had been the second time Sherlock had looked over in that direction after being asked that question, almost like he was trying to tell them something. All at once it clicked and he mouthed the question silently to the man in front of him. ‘Recording?’  
Sherlock’s face transformed immediately into that of extreme relief and he nodded enthusiastically for a couple of seconds before he motioned towards Lestrade then placed his index finger to his lips. Although silent, the message was clear ‘don’t tell Lestrade.’

He wasn’t sure why, but this did nothing more than further upset and anger him. He didn’t understand the coldness or the deception. He was tired and the sudden changes in Sherlock’s body language and tone were throwing him all over the place, giving him emotional whiplash.  
“Just tell me one thing,” he said after a few seconds, “are you even sorry?”  
Sherlock stared at him for a minute, a look of sadness in his eyes. He swallowed heavily and nodded his head a few times.  
“Should I be? I didn’t do anything.” The voice was cool and calm, like it had been throughout the entire conversation, but his face told a different story.  
“Exactly,” growled Greg from across the other side of the room, back still facing them.  
Sherlock visibly flinched at the single word.  
He didn’t understand why it angered him so much, perhaps it was the dishonesty. How was he to know which was the truth, the words or the actions? He had basically just told him to withhold information from Lestrade, so what else was he hiding? Why was he continually putting himself above the others? What the hell was more important than their lives? He thought they were friends…  
He got more upset the more he thought about it and suddenly the answers he did have, were not enough anymore. He didn’t care who might be listening, he had to know.  
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?” He asked coldly. Sherlock looked confused.  
“I just told you…”  
“No Sherlock... That’s not good enough.” John started, shaking his head. “You can’t just say ‘not now’ and expect things to go back to how they were… Not this time… You need to give me something.” Sherlock looked at him with a blank expression.  
“I need to understand how my BEST FRIEND could just sit by and watch, as three men tortured and nearly killed me. I need to know why you didn’t do anything, why you didn’t say anything! I was screaming, Greg was yelling at you and you did nothing!” It was getting harder to talk past the welt of emotions in his throat.  
“You didn’t even try to make them stop… I was BEGGING for your help Sherlock, and you know what you did?” John had tears falling from his eyes.  
“You looked away.” All the fight and anger had drained away, leaving only confusion and grief.  
Sherlock remained silent, but would no longer look at him.  
“You looked away Sherlock... You were my best friend... How could you do that to me?”  
“Don’t waste your time John, he doesn’t care.” Greg called quietly from the other side of the room. Sherlock grabbed hold of the bars in front of them so hard that his knuckles went white. Still with his head down, he quietly shook at the bars as he kicked the wall between them a number of times. It stopped just as quickly as it started, the violent yet quiet action. The detective calmed down, but still refused to say anything or look at him.  
“Prove him wrong Sherlock.” He said sadly. “Please… just prove him wrong. If I mean anything to you at all, now’s the time to prove it.” He watched as his housemate slowly looked up at him, staring for what seemed like an eternity. Finally Sherlock broke eye contact as he turned back to look at the sink. He stared at the object for a number of minutes before his head eventually dropped and moved ever so slightly left to right. He had made his decision and so had John.

“Well I hope you’re happy in there by yourself with all your little secrets because they’ll be the only friends you’ll have.”  
“John,” Sherlock whispered, as he reached his hand through the bars trying to grab hold of his hand.  
“Just leave us alone” he said quietly, as he took a step back from the window.  
“Fine” Sherlock replied a few moments later, voice as strong as ever. John thought he may have seen a tear fall from the man’s face, but he could not be sure as Sherlock turned and made his way back to the mattress, and curled up into a ball facing the wall.  
The conversation was over and John was actually relieved. He was too hurt and tired to deal with this flat mate anymore. He lay back down on the narrow bed and closed his eyes. Before he knew it he was fast asleep.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
When Dimmock arrived back at the Skyridge Hotel, he was surprised by how different the area looked in the daylight. The scene was crawling with officers from different departments including the fire investigation unit who appeared to be working quite closely with the rest of the team. They were scouring the scene for evidence which looked all but impossible when considering the amount of damage which had been done. As he moved closer to the room where the fire had apparently originated, he began to feel uneasy. The place was a complete mess. The fire had burnt almost everything in sight and the mass amounts of water which had been sprayed on the building had apparently destroyed the rest. He didn’t feel quite as confident anymore.

“D.I. Dimmock!” Donovan called as she walked up to meet him, Anderson right behind her. “Any luck with the other officers?”  
“Not really” he said disappointedly. “I managed to get a couple of brief descriptions but nothing substantial. What about you?”  
“Quite a bit actually. Sergeant Collins was a huge help. I’ve just been comparing notes with Anderson.”  
“We’ll walk you through it.” Anderson said, turning back to what was left of the room.  
As Peter stepped forward into the small space, he was hit by just how much of the room was missing. This had clearly been the focus of the blaze and most, if not all of the relevant information on the case would have been lost. Whoever had set the place on fire had been quite thorough.

One of the first things he noticed was the medical examiner crouched down beside a black mass and a second person taking photos. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that the black mass must have been one of the bodies from the original scene. As they drew closer, he passed something covered in a large blue tarp which he realised later, must have contained the remains of the second person.

“This is our unknown victim,” Sally started. From what Raimes and Collins could tell me, he was a young male with an apparent gunshot wound to the head. He was wearing cargo pants and a hoodie and was also in possession of a gun. It was believed that he fired most of the shots” Sally informed him.  
Looking up from the ground, the medical examiner confirmed the details.  
“Victim was indeed dead at the time of the fire and there is evidence of a gunshot wound on his forehead. Victim also appears to be male, as for his age I couldn’t be certain.”  
“What can you tell me about the other victim?” he asked.  
“Also male, age unknown.” The medical examiner started, standing upright and moving over to uncover the body closest to the door. “Cause of death is unknown at this point, but I can tell you that he was also deceased prior to the fire starting. Burn patterns are significantly worse on the other victim. We suspect that the body was exposed to a large amount of fire accelerant, possibly to make it difficult to ID.” Peter could feel his optimism drain away as he was left with the harsh reality of the situation.  
“Thank you George. Where do you plan on taking the bodies?” He asked numbly.  
“Sir? If you don’t mind, D.I. Lestrade always preferred St Bart’s. Molly Hooper, the pathologist is a friend of his as well as John and Sherlock.”  
“Fine,” he replied quietly.  
“St Bart’s it is then. I’ll have them start working on confirming his ID.” George replied calmly as he got to his feat and started to organise transport of the two bodies. Peter looked at Donovan with a confused look on his face.  
“What does he mean confirm his ID?” Sally gave him a big smile.  
“Collins gave us a name.”  
“You’re kidding? Who is he?” He asked excitedly. Maybe the case wasn’t completely lost after all.  
“Tony Roberts. Lestrade found his wallet.” Peter found himself smiling ever so slightly.  
“Okay, what else did he give you?”

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
He hadn’t been able to sleep at all after his encounter with John and Lestrade. He had tried to; his body had screamed for it, but as usual, his overstimulated brain wouldn’t allow it. After lying curled in a ball for a short time he found he could not keep still. Thoughts and memories zoomed around his head at lightning speeds, playing on his weaknesses and his feelings. After a while it became too much and he decided to get up. He jumped around the room a few times, trying to recover some of the feeling in his legs but he lasted less than a minute before exhaustion caused him to stop. He made use of the small number of facilities in the cell, even managing to clean his face up a little bit. After that, he spent a couple of minutes inspecting the poorly hidden recording device, before he resorted to counting the number of bars in each cell. Eventually he found himself back on the mattress curled into a ball, quietly shivering and wishing for sleep.

He was finally drifting off, when he heard the door to his cell open and a number of people walk in. They didn’t say anything at first but he could hear them moving closer. Something told him that he should move, or at the very least acknowledge that they were there, but he found that he just didn’t have the energy. Without warning, he felt a couple of hands grab at his left foot and he was quickly pulled off the bed, smashing his head against the concrete floor as he was dragged into the centre of the room.  
“I don’t remember saying you could sleep!” Frank snarled.  
“Well I don’t remember you saying that I couldn’t either,” he replied groggily.  
“There’s that smart mouth I was telling you about.” Jatz said moving into view. “That mouth will get you into a lot of trouble you know?”  
“So I’ve been told”.  
“Right! Onto business,” Frank said, cutting in. “The boss gave us some instructions; you wanna know what they are?”  
”Not particularly.”  
“He told us that we had to make sure we gave ya somethin’ to eat and that you were settled in for the night. The thing is, he then gave us two different interpretations as to what that might look like. So once again it’s down to you Mr Holmes. What sort of night do you plan on havin’?”  
Sherlock stayed quiet, wishing that whatever it was they were going to do, they would just hurry up and get it over with.  
“Are you going to start helping us?”  
“No.”  
“I was hoping you’d say that.” The man replied calmly, before all three men were suddenly on him.

He groaned as he felt the rough hands pull away his clothing, starting with his shoes and socks. He had started to put up a fight, but after receiving a punch to the face, he gave up. He was outnumbered three to one and there was no way that he could win. He felt a pang of regret when they took his long, thick coat away, then dragged him free of his suit jacket. With half of his clothing now gone, Sherlock could feel the fierce tremors rack painfully through his body. He wanted nothing more than to be warm and yet, his skin prickled with the cold. Before he could retreat into himself, a number of strong arms pulled him up into a squatting position. They positioned him, so that he had his back towards the side wall, and was facing towards John and Lestrade’s cell. A hand pressed down hard on his head forcing it towards the ground, as his two arms were twisted painfully behind his back and out, on other side of him. It was only then that he heard the power drill.  
   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- John -***  
He awoke with a start and if the sudden movement next to him was anything to go by, he guessed that Greg had too. The sound made his blood run cold. It was a sound he had hoped never to hear again; it was the sound of a drill coming from the cell next door.  
John scrambled to his feet and ran over to the window separating the two cells just in time to see all three of X’s men holding Sherlock in a squatting position by the side wall. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back and pulled up and out to either side. They appeared to be trying to secure his wrists to the wall using bolts, chain and metal cuffs. Sherlock remained still and silent, with his head facing the ground. John couldn’t see his face, but he did observe the occasional tremor which ran through the man’s body. Some part of him wanted to call out, to see if he was ok but another part of him was glad to see the detective in some discomfort for once.  
As the chains were pulled and locked into place, Sherlock made a small grunting noise, his arms pulled tightly up and out, effectively forcing him to stay in his current position – squatting with his head down.  
The three men, satisfied with their work, gathered up all their tools as well as Sherlock’s big coat, jacket and shoes and started to leave.  
“Have a good night” Frank addressed Sherlock cheerfully. “We’ll come back to check on ya a bit later, you know tuck ya in and all that. Wanna make sure you’re real comfortable on your first night here.” They turned and started to walk back out.  
“Oh! And I almost forgot…” Frank turned and placed a wrapped muesli bar on the ground, right in front of Sherlock’s face. “Enjoy!”  
Despite his anger towards the man, he did feel bad for the detective. It was just cruel, taunting him like that. He could hear Rusty snigger just outside the cell door, Sherlock however did not rise to the bait. The door was soon locked and the three men disappeared down the corridor. Once they were gone, he heard Sherlock growl in frustration.  
“Stupid!”  
“Sherlock?” John asked quietly.  
“Out of all the stupid… idiotic… arrrgh!”  
He started to pull at the chains, no doubt testing his range of movements and finding they were very limited. After a few moments, he settled again with a weak groan.  
He glanced over at Lestrade who was also staring at the now chained man, mixed feelings written all over his face. He knew how he felt. Sherlock had hurt them, but he still didn’t want to see any harm come to him; to anyone for that matter.  
_‘I guess that’s what makes us different’_ he thought numbly to himself.  
“Sherlock?” he repeated a little louder, “are you okay?”  
“I thought you didn’t care anymore,” the man replied bitterly, then refused to say another word.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
He was feeling a lot better about the case after meeting with Donovan. The notes she was able to provide from the two officers she interviewed, were a big help in the disaster zone, known as their current crime scene. Collins’ sketches had matched quite accurately with what was left of the area, so they decided to use it as a base tool to help them rebuild the scene. An ID of the first victim, and a detailed description of the second, meant that they were on their way to sorting out who the two men were and why they were there. It was Collins’ insights into the case however, that were proving most useful. He had talked to Lestrade; they had formulated theories which would no doubt prove invaluable to their investigation. It was believed that the two men had shot each other and yet there was only one gun found at the location. 

Anderson’s team had managed to dig a bullet out of one of the walls, which was being sent off to Ballistics as they spoke. The bodies were on their way to St Bart’s where they were sure to recover more bullets from the two victims. It was curious though, there only being one gun, where had the other one gone?  
“Donovan, did Collins mention any conversation he may have had with Lestrade surrounding the missing gun?”  
“Only that they talked about it. Apparently Lestrade didn’t want to speculate too much before the forensics team got there.” He nodded. “Although he did seem to have his own theory on the matter.” she continued.  
“Go on then.”  
“Well when he was down stairs, just before they were attacked; he was talking to the manager about the room the victim had booked. Apparently this Roberts, despite checking in alone, specifically asked for a twin room, not a single.”  
“Or a double” he added. “So he’s thinking there was another person staying there?” Sally nodded.“Did the manager ever see anyone else with the man?”  
“That’s the thing, apparently not and they didn’t have surveillance cameras to check on it either.”  
“What sort of hotel doesn’t have cameras in this day and age?”  
“Apparently their system went down a few weeks ago and they hadn’t got around to fixing it yet.”  
“Okay” he said with a sigh, “so what you’re saying is that there’s no way to know for sure one way or the another.”  
“No sir.”  
“Wonderful.”  
“What would you like me to do now?” She asked eagerly.  
He looked at her closely for a minute. She looked tired, run down. He quickly did the maths and realised that they had both been without sleep for over a day already.  
“Go home” he said at last.  
“Sorry?”  
“Go home Donovan and get some sleep.”  
“Sir, with respect…”  
“I don’t want to hear it Donovan. There’s nothing more you can do right now anyway. Leeds P.D. are running leads on our suspected victim, the bodies would have only just arrived at St Barts and all of the other evidence is still on route to the station. It will be several hours before we know anything so go home, get some sleep and I’ll call you if I need you.”  
Sally looked like she was going to argue, but after a moment she slowly nodded in defeat.  
“Yes sir.”  
“I mean it, get some sleep. There’s no use us both wandering around like zombies.”  
A few minutes later, Sally had gone and he wondered whether he should be following his own advice. As it was he had been up for just as long as she had and it was true when he said that there was not a lot that could be done right now. He decided at the very least, that he would go home and take a shower, maybe even grab something half decent to eat before checking on how things were going.  
   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Donovan -***  
It took Sally around half an hour to get back to her small apartment on the outskirts of town. By the time she finally walked through her front door, she was half asleep. Stumbling into the kitchen, she made herself a quick sandwich before changing into a t-shirt and track pants. It was only as a second thought that she dug out her phone and the small card which she had been given earlier that morning. With some hesitation, she dialled the number and waited only a second before Mycroft Holmes answered.  
“Sergeant Donovan, what can I do for you?”  
“Just thought I’d let you know that we have recovered some evidence from where the men were abducted and it’s being sent off for testing as we speak. So far we don’t have any leads on the kidnapping itself, however we now believe that it was a part of a murder cover-up.”  
“Yes a double homicide if I’m not mistaken.” She was once again taken aback by just how much this man seemed to know about the details of the case.  
“Exactly… We believe that by solving the first crime, it will lead us to the people responsible for taking your brother and the others.”  
“I understand, and how is that investigation progressing?”  
“Well one of the officers on scene was able to give us an ID for one of the victims, so we’re following that up. Hopefully we should get confirmation by morning.”  
“I see, and what was this victim’s name Ms Donovan?”  
Sally paused. It was one thing to update Sherlock’s brother on how the case was going; it was another thing entirely to share specific information. As if reading her mind, Mycroft gave a long and pained sigh.  
“I assure you Sergeant that this is information I will know within the hour, regardless of whether it is you who tells me. The benefit of me knowing this information now, is that I can start running my own enquiries straight away, rather than having to wait to hear it from my other sources.”  
Sally thought about this for a second. He did seem to know a lot about the case already and he had been extremely useful in providing hard to access information. Surely it wouldn’t hurt having someone else track this man down. After another minute’s hesitation, she reluctantly gave him the information.  
“Thank you Sergeant,” Mycroft Holmes replied before hanging up.  
Deciding that she had experienced enough stress and worry for one day, she slipped into bed and closed her eyes. It was warm and comfortable and she could not help but wonder how Lestrade and the others were spending their night; that is of course if they were still… _‘Don’t be daft, of course they are! Don’t think like that!’ she scolded herself.  
_ Pushing the thought aside, she cleared her mind and allowed the calm of sleep carry her away.


	11. Phase Two

***- Dimmock -***  
He had spent the last hour sitting in the kitchen of Mrs Jean Hudson, at 221 Baker Street, asking questions about her two tenants and trying to offer some comfort to the distraught woman. She had been beside herself at the news that ‘her two boys’ had been abducted and had been quick to offer help in any way possible. Unfortunately, she knew very little about the daily happenings of the two men, or about the cases they worked on. It would seem that Mrs Hudson found out the details about their adventures the same way that most people did – through John’s webpage. After promising to keep her in informed of any new leads that may come up, Peter was finally able to make his escape. He decided then, that someone else could call by and talk to Lestrade’s ex-wife. He’d had enough. After checking in at the station and being assured by all departments that they would have nothing more for him in the next several hours at the earliest, he made the decision to call it a night; but not before barking off several more orders to various members of the investigation team. With several hours of daylight remaining, he sent a small team to Lestrade’s flat and another back to Baker Street. The idea was to search for any sign that this was anything other than a crime scene cover up. As detectives, Sherlock and Lestrade had helped put a lot of bad people away; maybe one of them had come back to bite them. There was a chance that the two crimes were not connected at all. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that they were taken from the hotel when they were. It was not very likely, but not completely out of the question.  
He gave the teams instructions to search for evidence of any threats they may have received and to look for individuals who may be holding a grudge. This included searching both John and Sherlock’s webpage’s as well as Lestrade’s case files. He was not very hopeful that they would find anything but it made him feel better knowing that there were people still actively looking into the case and not just sitting back and waiting. Satisfied that he had done all he could for now, he settled down for the night, hoping that the morning would bring new information and fresh eyes.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- John -***  
Sherlock had been strung up against the wall for what seemed like hours, and most of that time had been spent in silence. They had tried to talk to him, ask if he was okay but the man would not speak. In fact he had barely made a sound at all, except for the occasional grunt or groan. As a result, John and Lestrade had spent a lot of their time re-checking their wounds. For John, this meant finally seeing the damage done to his shoulder. Greg had helped to take off his shirt and remove the bandages, as he was both unable and unwilling to do it himself. Once the dressings were off, it had taken him a few more seconds before he got the courage to look down, at which point, he wished he hadn’t.  
His shoulder was a mess. The flesh had been torn to shreds around the entrance to the small hole and the entire area was bright red and inflamed. With all the pressure now removed from his shoulder, he watched a small trickle of blood fall from the small gap and run down his chest. He took a deep breath and gently moved his right hand to inspect the severity of the wound. He had to force himself to focus only on the injury; detach himself from the memory of how it got there and think instead of how he would treat it. He was a doctor and this was an injured shoulder. That was it, nothing else. The fact that it was his own shoulder shouldn’t come into it at all, but it did.  
The most difficult obstacle he had to contend with, other than the pain, was that he couldn’t look at the damage done to his back. He tried to feel for it with his hand but pulled away with a hiss when he accidentally probed the wrong part too hard. After a few tries he gave up trying to do it himself, instead asking Greg a series of different questions, which was only moderately helpful. In the end there was nothing else he could do to the arm other than bandage it back up again. The bleeding was controlled and the area around the site was as clean as it was going to get under the circumstances. With Lestrade’s help, he was able to reduce the amount of cloth they used to re-bandage the wound and with the remaining strips of fabric; he was able to make a temporary sling. He slipped his left wrist through the small loop he had created in the thin strip and had Lestrade tie both ends of the material around his neck. It helped his pain considerably, taking the majority of the weight off his injured shoulder. Feeling as though he had accomplished quite a lot in the small amount of time, he had just started contemplating examining Greg’s fingers again, when he once again heard the dreaded sounds of footsteps. 

The visit was expected but it still unnerved him every time one of those men got anywhere near him. It was a bit of a surprise when they did finally appear because instead of the usual trio, this time there were only two; Frank and another man to whom he had never seen before. They stopped right outside their door and looked in at them with a look of pure delight.  
“Here” Frank said, throwing in two muesli bars, similar to the one still sitting in front of Sherlock. “Bon Appétit” he said with a grin before moving onto the next cell.  
Ignoring the two bars, John moved over to the window to watch as the two men entered Sherlock’s cell and walked straight up to the chained man.  
“Ohhhh didn’t you want the food?” Frank said with a mocking whine as he picked the small bar up off the ground.  
“No it’s Apricot, I’m not a big fan” Sherlock replied casually.  
“Well that’s a shame; I’ll remember that for next time. I’d hate for it to go to waste thought.” Frank said as he sat down on the floor in front of the restrained man and proceeded to eat the bar right in front of him. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
He had been staring at the muesli bar for hours trying to figure out a way to get at the small treat. He didn’t usually eat very much, but after not having eaten for over 24 hours, he was well and truly hungry. So when Frank came back in and took the small bar away, he felt what could almost be described as a moment of despair, before he was able to shake it off. He had gone longer than this without food before, it was no big deal.  
He tried to convey that very sentiment to Frank but the man saw right through it. As if proving a point, he sat down right in front him and began to eat it. Chewing slowly at the muesli and commenting on just how good it was. He tried not to watch, tried not to let it get to him, but it did. His arms pulled uncomfortably as he continued to shiver almost uncontrollably. His legs ached as did his arms and neck, unable to move in any way that would release the pressure in either.  
“Who’s your friend?” He asked, trying to take his mind off his discomfort.  
“None of your business,” Frank snapped suddenly, getting back to his feet and walking over to the wall just left of him. It was then that he also noticed the new man duck down on his right hand side, as if checking something behind him. Without warning and at almost the same time, he felt sharp blades dig into the soles of his feet, starting from as far forward as they could reach and continuing backwards through his heel. The cuts felt deep and the pressure from his body weight was making them spit wide open. He growled loudly through his teeth, trying to ignore the painful sting.  
“Well g’dnight Mr Holmes, we’ll see ya in the morning.” Frank said cheerfully.  
“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” chimed the second man. Sherlock decided that he didn’t like this new guy at all - he had a creepy feel to him, just like Frank and Rusty did. 

Lestrade had tried to talk to him again after that, but he refused to respond. Their words had upset him and he didn’t want to deal with that on top of his current problem. Even he could only take so much at one time, so he decided to focus on himself for a while. It was about ten minutes after deciding that he wouldn’t talk to the men next door, when he found himself doing just that.  
He couldn’t help but listen in on their conversations occasionally. He didn’t necessarily intend to, but they were all sharing a small space. Normally he would try to tune out their useless conversations, but this one caught his attention; and it really pissed him off.  
“We need to try and figure out how we can get out of here.” Greg said quietly to John, “how many men have you seen in this place? Do you know any of the layout?”  
“I’ve only seen the four from the other room and then that new guy just now. Other than that, I haven’t seen much; I’ve been unconscious most of the times they’ve moved me.” John replied.  
“Alright, so we have at least five men, three in particular we would need to keep a look out for…”  
“Will you two shut up?!” He yelled with true annoyance. What the hell was John doing? Only a couple of hours ago he had told the doctor about the recording device and now he was letting Lestrade discuss possible escape plans!  
Both rooms had gone awkwardly silent, before the conversation started up again at the same volume.  
“We need to try and find out more about this new guy…”  
“John!” He called out to the doctor.  
“What is it?” came the tired reply.  
“Can you come and look at something for me?” He looked up at the window and saw John slowly move into view.  
“What is it?” He asked again with a sigh.  
“This” Sherlock said motioning his head towards the sink. John followed his gaze and paused, eyes opening slightly wider, before closing them in realisation. How on earth he had forgotten about the recorder he would never know.  
“Do you think the bleeding has stopped?” He asked, putting emphasis on the word ‘stop’. John gave him a small nod, before glancing at his feet and replying sadly “Not yet, but it’s slowing down.”  
The two continued to look at each other before his shoulders decided that enough was enough and his head fell back down towards the floor. He listened as John joined Lestrade back on the mattress, but instead of continuing their talk on escape, John was quick to inform the Inspector of his overwhelming need to sleep and assured him that they would talk about it in the morning. Lestrade seemed to accept the excuse rather easily and in no time at all, he could hear the changes in their breathing. They had both fallen asleep, leaving him to face the long cold night alone.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
Peter had been fast asleep when a loud ringing had startled him awake. Looking around the dark room in confusion, it took a moment for him to realise that the noise was coming from his mobile phone. Feeling blindly in dark, he found the offending object and glanced at the bright screen in front of him. It was from the station. His heart skipped as he answered the call and croaked an uncertain greeting.  
“Hello?”  
“D.I. Dimmock, this is Jenkins. Sorry to wake you sir, but we have some information you’ll want to hear.”  
“What time is it?” He asked drowsily as he grabbed at the small alarm clock next to his bed.  
“It’s about 7.30 sir.” Less than four hours sleep, no wonder he was still so tired.  
“What is it Jenkins?”  
“Leeds Police Department got back to us a little while ago. They can’t find any record of a Tony Roberts living in the area. They did a search on all the IT Software Designer Firms; no one has anyone by that name in their books. A few have people in London but they have all been accounted for. No reports for missing people either, here or there.”  
Dimmock sat up, now very much awake.  
“Shit... Okay, we’ll have to go back and check the details with Sergeant Collins; he must have got it wrong.”  
“One step ahead of you sir, Collin’s is adamant about the name, apparently there were numerous ID’s in the wallet all with that name and the dead man’s photo.”  
“Okay” he said with a sigh. “I want you to send the name and description out nationwide. Maybe he recently moved or changed jobs, I don’t know; just get the name out there to as many stations as you can. We need to find out who the hell this guy is! If we have to wait on DNA it will take us days!”  
“We’ll get on it right now.”  
“Okay good, ring me if you find anything else.”  
“Yes sir.” The call ended and Peter flopped his head back on the pillow. It was like everything was working against them, they just could not catch a break. It was nearing the 24-hour mark since the three men had been taken and he didn’t even want to think about what could be happening to them right now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***-Lestrade -***  
He was woken suddenly, when something hard and solid hit him in the face. He grabbed at the area just right of his mouth and jerked away from the perceived danger, only to find himself rolling off the mattress and hitting the floor. Looking over in the direction of his would be attacker, he saw John twitching and throwing his head around. By the look of it, the man was having a particularly bad nightmare and had accidentally kicked him in the face. Picking himself up off the ground, he moved to sit next to the doctor to try and calm him down. He was making pathetic crying noises and it sounded as if he was calling out to someone. At one point he heard the words “please” and “stop” and very occasionally both his and Sherlock’s names. It was absolutely heartbreaking and after a few minutes of trying to calm him down, he decided it was best to wake him up. His whole body twitched and jerked like he was having a fit and he worried that he would do some damage to his already injured arm.  
“John!” He called quite loudly, but the thrashing continued “John wake up!” He called again, this time grabbing at his right arm and giving it a shake. It took about 30 seconds to wake the man and when he did, John sat up for a moment completely disorientated and confused.  
“Greg?” he asked breathing heavily.  
“Yeah mate, you’re okay, you were just having a nightmare. Everything is fine, go back to sleep.”  
John sighed and fell back down against the mattress. He was still breathing quite heavily and he had perspiration running down his forehead. He watched over his friend as his breathing slowly levelled out and returned to normal. His eyes slowly closed and he was asleep once more. Lestrade continued to watch him, too rattled to do anything else. He was hesitant to lie back down and go to sleep again in case John had another nightmare. He wanted to be there for him and he didn’t want to get kicked in the head again. He decided he would sit up with him for a while just in case.  
_Beep_  
He looked around the cell for a moment confused. He didn’t know if it was real or if he had imagined it. He waited a few more seconds, but did not hear anything. Deciding that the stress was finally getting to him, he got up and walked over to the sink. He turned on the tap and made a small cup with his hands, drinking the water which fell from the faucet. That was when he heard it again.  
_Beep_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
With the ceiling lights still burning, his perception of time was long gone. He had no idea how long he had been stuck there, chained to the wall but he found that after a while his mind started to wander in and out of awareness. He began to treasure the times where he would ‘zone out’; become mentally absent, where nothing could hurt him. When he was away in that other place, it was like he was floating. He could feel nothing, hear nothing; like a star suspended in space.  
It was always a bit of a shock when he emerged from these periods of nothingness and was faced with his true reality. He didn’t particularly like the real world anymore; and he would feel his emotions start to slip if he stayed in it for too long. He was exhausted, near freezing and his arms were on fire. The only change was that his feet no longer hurt; in fact he couldn’t feel them at all. On top of that, he was still alone. For some reason he didn’t think it would be so hard if he wasn’t by himself. John and Lestrade had been asleep for a long time, which is why it was such a shock when he had heard John mutter his name.  
He listened carefully as John made a few more undistinguishable noises followed by a long pained moan. At first he was alarmed, thinking that maybe someone had gotten in there. His slow and sluggish mind eventually deduced that John was in fact having a nightmare and it wasn’t too difficult to guess what it was about.  
“Stop…”  
“Sherlock…”  
It was like a punch to the chest. He could hear John’s whimpers and the occasional hitch of his breath. It was like a different form of torture; slow and sadistic. It had been bad enough when the scene had re-played itself in the freezer, but now he was reliving the entire episode again, this time with sound effects.  
“Please…”

He felt the tears slowly fall down his face as he listened to his friend’s anguished cries for the second time that day. He watched the small drops land and splatter on the floor as he tried not to picture what they had done to him. He wanted to yell out, make it all stop but thankfully he didn’t have to. Before too long, he heard Lestrade’s pained yelp as the man became alert once more and started to comfort his friend. Eventually John’s harsh and heavy breathing evened out as the man fell back into sleep, and Sherlock was surprised by how incredibly relieved he was to have the silence back. 

A few more uneventful minutes passed before a new sound entered his psyche.  
_Beep_  
At first he thought he had imagined it but a few minutes later he heard the noise again.  
_Beep_  
He wondered if this was some new addition to his slow torture. Restrain him so he can’t move; take away his clothes so he slowly freezes, and then drive him crazy with incessant beeping.  
“Did you hear that?” Lestrade asked, although he wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or just the universe in general. A few minutes later and it happened again.  
_Beep_  
“What is that?” Lestrade asked again, this time sounding annoyed. He had to admit he couldn’t quite figure it out himself. Just another puzzle for his sleep deprived brain.  
“Sherlock can you hear that?” Hearing his name caught him off guard a little, and he was slow to reply.  
“What?” he mumbled, slightly alarmed with how weak his voice sounded.  
Lestrade didn’t respond and after a few moments had passed in silence, he twisted his head upwards to find the Inspector standing at the window studying at him.  
“How are you holding up?” Lestrade asked quietly after a minute, a sombre look on his face.  
“Great,” he managed to mumble out before letting his head drop back to the floor. He thought Lestrade was about to say something else when they were distracted once more.  
_Beep_  
“There it is again! Can you hear that?!” the Inspector asked almost hysterically. He nodded slightly in response. “Do you know what it is?”  
“No,” he mumbled and the truth was he didn’t.  
“It sounds a little bit like my laptop when the battery is running out,” Lestrade continued. “Or maybe a phone… You don’t still have your phone do you?” He asked excitedly but Sherlock stayed silent, as a particularly fierce shiver ran through his body. “Of course you don’t, that was stupid. Still it begs the question, what the hell is it. Maybe it’s a smoke detector out in the hall. They always beep when the batteries are dying.”  
_‘Batteries! Of course! It must be the voice recorder going flat’_ he suddenly realised, annoyed with how long the simple mystery had taken him to solve.  
_Beep  
_ Not that it really mattered. It was not like he could do anything about the irritating noise and he wouldn’t be able to tell Lestrade anything until it stopped. In the meantime he would just have to listen to the man’s numerous theories. It was annoying but truth be told, he preferred it over the lonely silence.

After about ten minutes, Lestrade had given up speculating on what the sound could be and the room went quiet. Eventually the beeping sound stopped and the two waited in silence for something to happen. Nothing did.  
“I think it stopped,” Lestrade said quietly.  
“Mmmm, batteries ran out,” he mumbled in reply.  
“I thought you didn’t know what it was.” He sounded annoyed.  
“I figured it out.”  
“What was it then? It was a smoke detector, wasn’t it?”  
“No.”  
“What was it then?”  
“Recorder.”  
“What recorder?”  
“Ask John tomorrow… Go to sleep Lestrade.” And to his surprise the Inspector did just that.  
He only wished that he could do the same…


	12. Questions and Answers

***- Donovan -***  
Sally arrived back at the station by 4.30 the next morning, eager to rejoin the investigation. The team had been on a high when she had left the previous afternoon, having collected some good information and a new lead, but as soon as she entered the building however, she could instantly tell that things had taken a turn for the worse. A sense of hopelessness had descended over the office, people looked tired and frustrated.  
“What have I missed?” She asked a very dejected looking Jenkins.  
“God, I don’t even know where to start,” he replied, the stress clear in his voice. “It seems like everything we find is leading to a dead end.”  
“Well what have we found so far?”  
“The boys have finished going through the CCTV footage provided by your mystery source and we have no clue as to where they were taken. We were able to trace the van from the hotel to Shepherd’s Bush, but lost it as it headed further west. We searched all the footage we could find from around Uxbridge where the mobile phones were discovered but it came up empty. We sent out a forensic team to the warehouse but they were unable to find anything other than a few tyre treads. With nothing to compare them too, we won’t know if the van visited the area or whether the phones were dumped by another vehicle.” Jenkins said with a tired sigh. “We did manage to find footage of the van as it passed through Chesham heading northwest, but that was several hours after the last known sighting, and we don’t know what happened during that missing time. We’ve sent word out to the local Bobbies to start searching the area in between the two locations as soon as the sun comes up. I’ve also put out a bulletin to keep a look out for the van, but we’ve have had no luck so far.”  
“It might be worth putting out an official statement, get the public involved.” Sally said, slightly disheartened with what she was hearing.  
“It’s a good idea; maybe they can help find our mystery man too.”  
“What do you mean?” she asked confused.  
“This Tony Roberts character; apparently he doesn’t exist. Leeds PD can’t find any record of him and there has been no one with his name or description employed in IT or reported as missing in the Leeds area. We’ve been back to Sergeant Collins and he is positive about the name, so we’ve sent the details out to the whole of Britain looking for the guy.”  
Sally sighed deeply. Already she was feeling a headache coming on; and to think, she had been so hopeful when she got out of bed this morning.  
“Anything else?” She asked miserably, suddenly understanding why everyone looked so despondent.  
“Ballistic report came back. The bullets pulled from the wall and the first victim is a match to the gun found on the scene by victim number two. The third bullet was fired from a second unknown pistol. Gun at the scene is unregistered; serial number has been filed off.”  
“So it’s untraceable?”  
“Yeah, it’s untraceable. Any fingerprint evidence has been destroyed which leads me to our next problem… The fire damage to the bodies was so extensive, that fingerprints are out of the question and with no idea of who our two victims are, our only option for identification is through DNA testing, which I have been informed will take a minimum of three days.”  
“We don’t have three days to waste on this!”  
“I know, but the lab is backed up at the moment.”  
“Did you tell them that this is a priority situation?”  
“Yes ma’am and they are doing what they can. Keep in mind these tests usually take over a week.” Donovan groaned.  
“You’re right this is a nightmare.”  
Jenkins silently nodded. “Would this be a bad time to also mention that Harriet Watson rang at about 7pm last night? I told her that we were still working hard on the case, but she asked for you to give her an update when you got in this morning.”  
“Great, just what I need. Is Dimmock in?”  
“Not yet, he went home to get some sleep. I’m expecting him in soon.”  
“Well let’s put something together to give to the media, we’ll get Dimmock to look it over when he gets in. With any luck, we can make the six o’clock news, catch people on the TV and radio as they start getting ready for work. The sooner the descriptions are out there, the better chance we have of finding something.”  
“Sure thing, I’ll sit down with one of the media liaison guys right now.”  
A few seconds later and Sally was left standing alone in the middle of a very busy, yet quiet office block, some part of her wishing she had stayed at home. Rubbing at her forehead she walked towards the small kitchen area to make herself another cup of coffee. She had been there less than ten minutes and already it was turning into another day from hell. Just how had things managed to go so pear shape overnight? They were back to having absolutely nothing. As much as she hated to admit it, the only three people who could get this case moving again, where the same three people they were currently looking for. It was going to be a long day.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

***- John -***  
John awoke the next morning with a full bladder, an aching arm and a growling stomach. Unfortunately, there was not a lot he could do about his arm but as he lay on the mattress looking up at the ceiling, his mind drifted to the thought of the remaining muesli bar hidden beneath them. It was so temping to pull it out, but he and Greg had both made the decision to save it. Somehow just the knowledge that it was within arm’s reach was making his stomach growl louder. His bladder, thankfully, was a problem he could solve and a few minutes later, he found himself doing just that. 

His body felt stiff all over, making it painful to move. The thin mattress had done nothing to help his aching muscles. Wondering how Sherlock was holding up, he moved over to the window and peered through the bars. The man looked a right mess. Dried blood covered the floor around his feet and his head hung like a rag doll. He did not move, even the shivering had stopped. John had to look closely to see that the man was indeed still breathing.  
“Morning John,” he heard a quiet voice croak.  
He turned to look towards Greg, but found the man still sleeping. He turned back to Sherlock, realising that the noise must have come from him.  
“Hey,” he said guiltily. Here he was complaining about being hungry and sore; he could only imagine how Sherlock was feeling after being forced into that position all night. Sherlock didn’t normally eat very often and looking back to the day they were abducted, he could only remember the detective having a couple of pieces of toast. That meant that the man had probably been without food for close to 48 hours and who knew how much sleep he had in that time.  
“You doing okay?” he asked sadly, receiving a humorous huff in reply. 

He looked back down at Greg and saw the man slowly sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
“You alright?” he asked John groggily.  
He just nodded. Even though he felt like hell, he was still fine all things considered. In fact, in the new light of morning, he seemed much better off than the man next door. Sleep had allowed him to recharge, he felt stronger and less emotional. He was able to think more clearly than he had the previous day; and he was a little more open of the idea of talking to Sherlock again. Even if the man still refused to talk to them, the least he could do was give him a break. He was still going through a fair amount of shit without the two of them adding to it.

“Sherlock listen,” he started to say, but was cut off almost immediately.  
“Not now John,” Sherlock replied wearily.  
He stood there confused for a second, before he heard the footsteps approaching. He instinctively took a few steps further away, as he watched Jatz come into view and unlock the detective’s door. He was followed by a very irritable looking Rusty who marched right up to Sherlock, grabbed the man’s hair and jerked his head backwards. 

“Morning sunshine,” the older man sneered, before spitting in the detective’s face and throwing his head back towards the ground. It was done with such force, that his flatmates arms pulled further on the restrains causing a pained moan to escape his lips. Rusty took a couple of steps around him and started to fiddle with the chains holding Sherlock to the wall. He spared a glance at Jatz who had moved further into the room over by the basin, his hands searching for something, most likely the recorder. John watched as the younger man removed a small black stick from the area under the sink and slipped it into his pocket. The whole thing must have taken less than five seconds, as he slipped back to Sherlock’s side almost unnoticed. 

He watched quietly as the two men finally released Sherlock’s arms from the wall, both dropping to the floor like lead weights. Sherlock had tried to maintain his balance but found himself pitched forward instead, landing face first onto the cold ground.  
“Get up!” Rusty growled but Sherlock remained still; either unwilling or unable to move.  
“I said get up!” He repeated, emphasising his point with a heavy boot to the man’s ribs. Sherlock grunted and tried to manoeuvre himself into a kneeling position. His face looked weary, yet focused in concentration. Rusty soon got impatient and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arms pulling him upwards.  
John thought for a second that it may be a trick; a clever deception by the detective who at any moment would spring around and stage a daring rescue. Instead, Sherlock’s knees buckled and he started to fall sideways. Jatz stepped forward to catch him, before he could slam into the concrete again. Both he and Lestrade watched in shock as they dragged his sagging body out of sight, leaving the two of them alone once more.  
“Wonder what they’re going to do with him,” he muttered quietly to himself before a wave of nausea hit him and he had to sit down. How could this still be happening? Where the hell was everyone?

Him and Greg did not talk much after Sherlock had taken away, each lost in his own thoughts. Occasionally one of them would voice one of those thoughts out loud and they would talk for a little while, but they were usually questions that neither of them could accurately answer anyway.  
“How long do you think we’ve been here?” He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.  
“Ahhh I don’t know,” Greg replied almost confused.  
“It was pretty late when you called us, what 11 o’clock? I remember because I was looking at my watch every five minutes. Sherlock was in the middle of giving me one of his ‘very important scientific lectures on the life cycle of maggots if I remember correctly. 20 minutes in and I was looking for any reason to get the hell away from him…” His voice trailed off and his throat went dry, as he looked out in the direction that the men had taken his flatmate. He could only imagine what they were doing to him and it was not a nice thought.  
“Okay, so say you rocked up, what? Quarter past? So let’s say we were taken around 11:30.” Lestrade said quickly, trying to change the subject.  
“I suppose.”  
“My guess is, that they questioned us all that night and a fair slice into the next day before they called it quits.” John nodded in agreement, as he counted the number of hours in his head. “So this would be the start of day two…” Lestrade trailed off, as if hearing the words, suddenly made them real.  
“Around 32/33 hours by my count,” John replied miserably. “Where the hell is everyone? They would have to know we’re missing by now, what’s taking them so long?!” He demanded, looking at Lestrade as though he held some psychic link to the rest of the Police Force.  
“I have no idea,” the inspector replied despondently. “Hey, an interesting thing happened last night. I heard a weird noise.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah, sort of a strange beeping sound. It went on for ages, it was driving me crazy. I convinced myself after a while that it was probably a smoke detector going flat but when it eventually stopped, Sherlock told me it was a recorder and that I should ask you about it.” John froze, “any idea what he was talking about?”  
“Did he say anything else?” he asked almost frantically.  
“No, he just told me that I should ask you about it in the morning and then he told me to go to sleep.” John nodded, disappointed. “So, you do know what he’s talking about?”  
“Yesterday when they brought him in and we were all talking, he told me that there was a voice recorder hidden in his cell.”  
“What?! When? I can’t remember hearing that!”  
“Well he didn’t actually say anything, it was more said through body language really.”  
“Well why the hell didn’t you say anything?”  
“He told me not to, and don’t ask me why, I have no idea.” The room went quite again as both men were once again lost in their own thoughts.  
“Do you think that’s why he wouldn’t say anything last night?” Greg eventually asked in a small voice. John sighed.  
“I don’t know… I suppose so…. I think he wanted to. He was getting pretty upset with the way the conversation was going.”  
Thinking back to the discussion he had with the detective, he felt like a bastard. He could remember the miserable look on the man’s face as Lestrade announced that he would no longer have anything to do with him. He realised that the uncaring words would have been for the recorder, he just didn’t understand why. The thing that bothered him the most though, was the memory of the white knuckles gripping at the bars; the sudden violent outburst and the shattered look on the man’s face as he turned and walked away.  
“Was he?” Greg asked slightly taken aback, “I didn’t notice.”  
“You were too angry, too upset, we both were.”  
That was all it was when it came down to it. Too caught up in their own turmoil to notice or care about what was going on in front of them. Now that he had time to reflect, he felt like a prat. He shouldn’t have just dismissed him like that. He should have given the man another opportunity to explain himself. He promised that next time Sherlock had something to say, he would listen. He deserved that much.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

***- Donovan -***  
“We found the van!” an excited voice called from the other side of the office.  
By six o’clock that morning, the news about the three kidnapped men and the missing van had hit the headlines. As the hours had ticked by with no word, the mood at New Scotland Yard had continued to deteriorate. With little else to go on, they were hoping for a key piece of information that would crack the case wide open, and it looked like they may finally have it.  
“Where is it?” Dimmock asked, moving towards the excited officer.  
“Enfield. Just a few streets down from Cockfosters tube station.”  
“Enfield?! What’s it doing all the way out there? They sure it’s the right van?”  
“Positive sir, description and registration both match.”  
Sally looked to her boss and saw the frustration on his face. She understood how he felt. Enfield was miles away from the van’s last known location. It didn’t make sense that it would suddenly change direction and head east after it had been travelling north-west.  
“Do we know if it’s empty?” She asked the officer quietly.  
“The couple who found it say the doors are all locked, but they reported no sounds coming from inside the vehicle. Local bobbies should be there any second to secure the scene and force the doors.”  
“I want to know the second they get there.” Dimmock said forcibly, “and I want you to send Anderson and a team out there right now to process the scene.”  
“Already on their way.”  
“Good,” he said quietly, dismissing the officer.

“We should check the security cameras at Cockfosters station. If they used the Piccadilly line, we should have their faces on camera,” she suggested helpfully.  
“This will be a dump job,” he said despondently. “We just have to hope they haven’t got anyone in there.” Sally nodded quietly.  
“I’ll head out there too, talk to the people who found the van, try to establish a timeline.”  
“No, I want you to stay here, try to trace the van’s movements,” Dimmock replied. “Figure out when and how it made its way to Enfield. If we know the route they took, it may lead us to another location. Maybe you can give that mystery source of yours a call. He seemed to be able to deliver on CCTV footage pretty quickly last time.”  
Sally had actually forgotten about Sherlock’s brother, having not heard back from him since the previous afternoon.  
“Sure, what are you going to do?”  
“Like you said, I’ll head out to Cockfosters; interview the witnesses and try to track down some suspects.”  
“Sir?” The voice of Officer Butler floated into the room as he reappeared in the doorway. “The local officers have forced the door, the van’s empty.”  
“Well at least we’ve answered that question, thank you Butler,” he said with a sigh. “Well I better get going. Hopefully Anderson can find something in the van, God knows we need it right now.”  
With that, Dimmock grabbed his coat and headed out of the door, leaving Sally to ponder what she would say to the elder Holmes brother, when her mobile phone rang. She looked down at the blocked number curiously.  
“Hello?”  
“Sergeant Donovan.”  
“Oh, Mr Holmes, I was just about to ring you.”  
“Is that so? What about, may I ask?”  
“I wanted to call in a favour. We found the white van out by Cockfosters station, I was wondering if you could help fast track some CCTV footage like last time?”  
“Certainly, consider it done. Was that all?”  
“Oh and just to touch base, see if you are having any luck tracing down our mystery dead man. We still have nothing. A few names have popped up on the missing person database, but we’ve been able to rule them out pretty quickly.”  
“That was in fact why I was ringing. I may have an answer for you” the man said cryptically.  
“Oh really?”  
“It would seem as though my brother has once again stumbled across something more than he can handle. ID has not yet been confirmed but I am quietly confident we have the right person. I should receive DNA proof in the next few hours.”  
“We were told DNA was going to take a few days!” Sally argued.  
“Not when I ask for it, Sergeant.”  
Sally didn’t know what to think. Was this guy for real?  
“I am sending an Agent Trent Williams from the Home Office to New Scotland Yard, so make sure you are there. “  
“Home office?”  
“Yes.”  
“What’s going on? What’s all of this about?”  
“He will arrive in the next ten minutes to fill you in on the details. I apologise Sergeant but I must go,” and with that, the line went dead.  
“Ok,” she said, somewhat dumbstruck. What the hell was going on?


	13. An Unwelcomed Snack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts to get a little darker...

***- Lestrade -***  
It had been several hours after they had taken Sherlock away before he was finally returned to the neighbouring cell. The man walked slowly and with some difficulty, but more or less off his own accord. Rusty pushed him through the doorway where he stumbled for a second, his momentum and concentration temporarily lost. It was the first time that Lestrade witnessed the detective’s mask start to slip. Several creases and a slight look of despair appeared on the man’s face before he had a chance to disguise it. As if aware of his mistake, Sherlock paused for a moment and regained his composure, before shuffling slowly forwards once more, his mask firmly back in place.  
“Don’t get yourself too comfy, we’ll be back in a minute.” Frank said with an almost manic grin before he and his partner disappeared back down the corridor.  
Neither he nor John could think of anything to say to the detective, who despite putting on a strong front, was clearly in pain. They watched as the man slowly limped towards the thin mattress and carefully lowered his body into an awkward sitting position.  
“That doesn’t sound good,” Sherlock mumbled to himself; his head falling back against the wall with a slight groan.  
“You alright?” John called quietly from beside him.  
Sherlock turned his gaze towards the two of them, a look of confusion in his eyes. He appeared to hesitate for a moment before casually replying.  
“I’m fine.”  
“Really?” the doctor asked, with more than a little scepticism in his voice. “Where have you been? What have they been doing to you?”  
“Let’s put it this way John,” Sherlock said, cutting the man off mid sentence. “If this was a competition, you’d still be winning.” He replied with a small smile.  
They could hear footsteps drawing closer and the three of them watched as Rusty and Frank returned, this time with Jatz who held an armful of sinister looking equipment.

“We thought that seeing as though you didn’t wanna eat your dinner last night, we’d best feed ya.” Frank said gleefully as he re-entered the small cell, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.  
“There’s no need, I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied casually, looking away from the small group and their disturbing grins.  
“Well we wanna make sure you keep your strength up you see. There’s still some long hours ahead for you Mr Holmes.”  
“Fine, give me a muesli bar then.”  
“After Jatz went to all this trouble? We don’t wanna hurt his feelings now do we?”  
Frank’s tone slowly changed from a psychotic sing to an intimidating threat, as he stood over the battered detective. The tension in the room dramatically increased, as Rusty slowly moved around to Sherlock’s left side, a piece of tubing in his hand. Sherlock, for his part, looked like a cornered animal; his body prepared to flee or fight at any second.  
“Oh God…” came John’s whispered voice. He turned his head slightly to glance at the doctor who was staring wide eyed at the scene playing out in front of them.  
“What?” he whispered back, slightly confused. 

Before John had the chance to reply, the room next door exploded in a scene of wild yelling and frantic movements. Rusty had tried to strike first, taking a flying leap at Sherlock’s head. The detective was able to avoid it just in time, lunging sideways into the newly formed gap. He would have made it too, if it was not for Frank’s quick hands. The thug managed to grab onto one of his ankles, causing him to fall flat on his face. Sherlock lashed out wildly at the man’s body and managed to kick himself loose, but not before the other two were back on top of him.  
Voices were lost in a sea of confusion, as all three men scrambled on the floor, trying to restrain their prisoner.  
“Hold him still!”  
“Get the cuffs!”  
Sherlock tried frantically to worm his way free of their controlling grips, desperately kicking and punching out at the bodies around him.  
“OW! He hit me in the face!”  
“Hold him still!”  
“Goddamnit! Keep still you piece of shit!” Frank yelled as he pulled back the detective’s arm and punched him forcibly in the side of the head.  
Sherlock stopped struggling, momentarily impaired by the shock of the blow. Seeing an opportunity, Frank quickly sat on his chest, effectively pinning him to the ground.  
With some power of control now restored, the three men were able to turn the detective onto his side, just enough so they could handcuff his arms behind his back.

Even though he couldn’t see exactly what they were doing, it didn’t take much of an imagination to work it out. Jatz and Rusty were both kneeling by Sherlock’s head, while the detective thrashed around on the ground. It was this sight, more than anything else, that made his blood run cold. Ever since they had been brought here, he had never seen Sherlock put up a fight like this. He could hear loud choking and gagging sounds, as the detective continued to violently resist the tube being forced down his throat.  
“Stop it! He’s going to choke!” John yelled, but they just ignored him, forcing the tube deeper down into the man’s body.  
He felt sick.  
He had wanted Sherlock to suffer for what he did to them, or rather what he failed to do, but nothing like this. He wouldn’t wish this kind of treatment on his worst enemy, let alone a friend.  
Was he still a friend? He honestly didn’t know anymore. Either way, he wished the man’s torment would soon end; he didn’t know if he could watch for much longer.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He couldn’t breathe.  
His throat felt like it was on fire as they pushed the tube deeper down towards his stomach. His rational brain tried to tell him to stay still; the only thing he would accomplish by fighting them, was a prolonged experience. He knew all this but he could do nothing about it. Panic had set in and instinct took over, as he wriggled around on the floor uselessly, trying to knock the men off.  
The tubing was thick and he could feel it scrape along the walls of his oesophagus. His chest shuddered painfully as he wheezed around the obstruction. His lungs felt ready to burst as the tears started to flow down his face. He wanted to scream but couldn’t.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tube reached its destination and he was finally able to breathe again. The room suddenly went quiet, as all three men slowly got to their feet, giving him a moment to catch his breath. He could see the thick, yellowish tube, sticking out of his mouth and beyond that, the faces of his two former friends pressed against the bars of the window. He wanted them to go away. He didn’t want them to witness this humiliation, but they seemed completely fixated on what was happening. Unable to do much more, he closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again, he would wake up from this nightmare.  
He had known that this was coming as soon as they had entered his cell - he could see it on their smug faces. Sherlock had heard of force feeding before, knew the methods, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of experiencing it firsthand. It was ten times worse than anything he had imagined, and they were only half way through…

“God what the hell did you put in this Jatz? It looks like vomit and it smells like piss!” Frank exclaimed from somewhere to his right.  
“Funny you should mention that” Jatz replied dully.  
“It’s my secret recipe” Rusty interjected. “Both tasty and nutritional.”  
The two older men chuckled to themselves as they moved back towards him; their presence casting a cold, dark shadow over his already abused body. Like a child he tried to pretend it was all a bad dream; as if by ignoring the scary men they would simply go away. The brief fantasy was cut short however, when he felt his head and shoulders being propped up slightly on the edge of the mattress.

“Don’t do this,” he heard John call.  
He knew that it wouldn’t do anything to stop what was about to happen, but it did make him feel a little better. Perhaps his flatmate did still care after all.  
“Jatz stick that funnel on the end there.”  
A strong sense of fear threatened to take hold, as he felt something being attached to the end of the tubing. A number of strong hands took hold of his head, as he felt a familiar weight return to his chest. Opening his eyes, he could see Frank sitting on him once more, holding the pipe and funnel in one hand and grasping his chin with the other. Noticing that Sherlock had opened his eyes, Frank leaned forwards towards him.  
“Hope you enjoy it…“he whispered with a smile. “I know I will…” 

He could feel his heart start to race as Rusty entered his field of vision, a small bucket in his hands. He tried to turn his head but the hands gripped harder, keeping it in place. His legs kicked and buckled frantically as he tried desperately to dislodge the man on top of him. In the end, however, there was nothing he could do but watch, as the bucket slowly tipped and he felt the first splash of gluggy mixture enter his body.

The smell assaulted his nose, the texture his throat.  
Fortunately, he couldn’t really taste the concoction, but he knew from the smell that it wasn’t anything good. He felt himself gagging around the mixture as it worked its way down into his stomach. A few times he felt as though he would choke, but Rusty seemed to know what he was doing. He could feel his stomach inflating painfully and he tried once again to move his head with no luck.  
Just when he thought his stomach would not be able to take any more, the flow of mixture stopped.  
Everything remained still for a couple of minutes, as if everyone had just frozen. All he could hear for a long time was the sounds of his own rasped breathing, with the occasional muttered question from one of the men still holding him down. His stomach ached painfully, the nausea growing with every passing second. After hearing Rusty announce that five minutes were up, he felt the funnel and then eventually the tubing being removed inch by inch.  
He felt sick, and as soon as the tubing passed through his throat and out his mouth, that feeling increased tenfold, as he tasted clearly, for the first time, what they had just forced into his body. The hands and pressure disappeared and he instinctively rolled to his side into the recovery position, where one of the men thankfully removed the handcuffs. He remained still, trying to control the overpowering urge to expel the foul substance in his overstretched stomach. As much as he would have loved to, he didn’t dare do it when the men were still in the room. They were just as likely to do it all over again. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
He had seen people being fed via tubes before, but always to help someone and always in a hospital setting. Never had he witnessed anything like that and it left him feeling nauseous.  
After the three men had left, Sherlock grabbed at the floor in front of his face. From his view point, he could see that the man was breathing steadily through his nose, but both his eyes and mouth were closed tight in concentration.  
“Sherlock?” he heard Greg ask quietly, but the man in question did not reply. In fact, he made no indication that he had even heard him.  
As the footsteps moved further away, he could see Sherlock’s body convulse slightly, his breathing hitching every so often.  
“Sherlock are you okay? Can you hear me?” he asked softly, but the man was still not listening. 

Clearly unable to hold on any longer, Sherlock got to his hands and knees and scrambled towards the toilet. His body heaved and shook as he emptied his stomach of the mixture they had forced into him. Just when he thought that the detective had stopped, Sherlock would stick his fingers down his throat and up would come more of the foul-smelling liquid.  
After what seemed like close to ten minutes, Sherlock had expelled all that he could. The man sat with his head in the bowl, taking a few seconds to catch his breath, before flushing the liquid away. He continued to watch, as Sherlock slowly got to his feet and leant over the basin, rinsing his mouth out and taking a small drink before letting himself collapse against the wall. It was only then, when he was mostly hidden from their direct view, did he finally respond to anything that he or Greg was saying.  
“Are you okay?” he asked again, gently.  
“Yeah,” came the quiet, yet shaky response.  
“So, am I still winning?” he asked after a little hesitation. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but gave another amused huff in way of an answer.  
“Hey, it’s gone,” Sherlock said blankly.  
It took a second for John to realise what he was talking about, but from where he was sitting, he could only be referring to the recorder.  
“Yeah, Jatz took it away this morning when they came to get you. I haven’t seen them replace it.”  
“Good,” Sherlock replied with a sigh.  
A few more minutes passed in near silence before Lestrade finally spoke up, saying what he couldn’t bring himself to ask.  
“Listen Sherlock, I know you’re probably not feeling that great at the moment, but seeing as there’s no voice recorder in here anymore, do you care to explain what the hell is going on?”  
Sherlock sighed but did not move. Another couple of minutes passed before the detective finally spoke.  
“You need to believe me when I say, that all of my actions since arriving here, I have done with the best intentions.” Lestrade scoffed quietly next to him. “You have to believe me when I say that I never intended it to go that far.” He continued, sticking his head out from the wall and staring intently at John.  
“Well what were you expecting to happen?” Lestrade growled out. He was starting to get angry again. Sherlock dropped his head back to the wall and took a deep breath.  
“Listen, I would love to explain this to you both and as long as the recorder stays away, I promise I will; but I don’t know how much time I’ve got before they come back to get me. I need to know everything that you told them. Everything that you know and may have found out; it’s important,” he said tiredly.  
“So let me get this straight,” Lestrade started, “you want us to tell you everything and you’re not going to give us anything in return?”  
“I know how it must sound, but you have to trust me.”  
“And why should we trust you?” he found himself asking softly. Sherlock’s head dropped.  
“Please,” he finally said after some time. “I’ll explain what I can later tonight, I promise. I need to know what you told them so I can start coming up with a strategy. Believe me when I say our lives could depend on it.”  
The room went quiet again as he and Lestrade looked at each other. Without saying a word, they both agreed that for the meantime, they would do what Sherlock asked of them.  
“Where do you want me to start?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
“Are you sure?” he asked for the second time.  
“Yes Sherlock, I’m positive,” John replied tersely. “I only told them what I saw, I don’t know anything else to tell them! I can remember you ranting on about a couple of things, but I don’t remember the details and even if I did, you weren’t making any sense!”  
“How about you Lestrade?” he continued, ignored his housemate’s rant completely. He turned to the Inspector who was looking as equally irritated.  
“Ahh, pretty much the same as John really,” Lestrade started, his voice stuttering briefly. “I was a lot more descriptive about what the victims looked like and what they were wearing, but that was about it. Ah… they found the note on me, which you already know and it seems pretty clear that they have no idea what it means but… neither do I, so…”  
“Oh come on, there has to be more than that!” Sherlock cried, throwing his hands up in frustration. He had long since removed himself from his hiding spot behind the basin and had repositioned himself on the makeshift bed. He sat awkwardly with his back against the wall, firing questions at the two of them and getting more and more frustrated with the answers. He couldn’t decide what was annoying him more; the fact that they were so slow to put the pieces together, or the fact that they hadn’t seemed to have noticed the pieces to begin with.  
“Um… I told them that the shots were reported just after 10pm.” Lestrade continued, with a shrug.  
“And how did they respond to that news?” he asked, suddenly very interested.  
“Ahh, I dunno… annoyed, I guess.”  
“Interesting…” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Sherlock brought both hands up to rest on his chin, and his mind instantly flashed to the image of the same man in an almost identical position only days before, sitting in his chair at Baker Street. They had just returned home after visiting a crime scene, when Sherlock had flopped into the familiar position. In fact John could remember hundreds of times when the detective had taken up the well-known pose, always enthusiastic and full of barely contained excitement. As his eyes scanned over the detective’s now bruised and battered face, the memory did nothing but upset him.  
“Anything else?” Sherlock asked.  
“Well, this might be way off the mark, but I got the distinct impression that this Tony Roberts guy was actually a police officer; possibly working undercover.”  
Sherlock shot completely upright and stared at Lestrade with a fiercely intense look.  
“Why would you say that?” Greg looked taken aback.  
“Well, I could remember you saying that the man wasn’t who he was claiming to be, and Frank kept asking me about some guy called Alex Walters and about ‘the copper at the scene – the dead one’. It didn’t really make a lot of sense at first, but then he was asking me specific questions about police procedure, particularly undercover operations. They were sure that I knew who this guy was… I don’t know, it was just a feeling.”  
Sherlock seemed to drift off and John could almost see the cogs turning in the man’s.  
“So they know about that... this is good, we can use this…” Sherlock mumbled to himself.  
“Wait, are you saying that I’m right?” Greg asked, rather surprised.  
“Yes, good pickup Lestrade. That piece of information is going to come in handy.”  
“But... you already knew that?” John said, unsure of whether it was intended as a question or statement.  
“Obviously.”  
“Well, then how is it going to be useful?”  
Sherlock slumped back into the wall and closed his eyes again, ignoring his question.  
“So, who is Alex Walters then?” Lestrade asked curiously.  
“I’m not sure. Probably the officers name, at a guess.”  
A few more minutes passed in complete silence as the two watched Sherlock ponder their problem, becoming more and more frustrated as time went by.  
“So what’s the plan then?” he blurted, unable to hold back his frustration any longer.  
“We start feeding them information.”  
“I’m sorry, what?” Greg asked, sounding confused.  
“You heard me.” Sherlock replied quietly, his eyes drifting to a spot on the floor. The two of them stared at him for several seconds, trying to work out if they had indeed, heard correctly.  
“Soooo… let me get this straight... You let them torture not only you, but us as well, and now you’re just going to tell them everything anyway?!” Greg asked incredulously.  
“Not me, you” Sherlock replied calmly.  
“But... I’ve already told them everything I know.” The inspector said, completely dumbstruck.  
“Yes, but not everything that I know.”  
“And why would we do that?” He asked, equally confused by the whole suggestion.  
“No, not you John, just Lestrade.”  
“But why me?” Greg asked, puzzled.  
Sherlock hesitated for just a second.  
“To make you useful again.”


	14. Red Tape

***- Lestrade -***  
His mind raced as it tried to process what Sherlock had just said, but he found that the more he thought about it, the more confused he got. Why now? Why wasn’t he useful? How was he ever useful? Why did this only seem to affect him and not John? How was this going to help solve their situation? Looking over at John, it appeared that the doctor was also struggling to make sense of it all.  
“I don’t understand,” he eventually muttered.  
Sherlock made a long, pained sigh before he looked back down at the ground.  
“They have no use for you anymore Lestrade and unless we change that very soon, they are going to get rid of you… and not in a good way.”  
“Well what about me?” John asked suddenly, Sherlock just shook his head.  
“No, you’re still useful,” the detective replied, dismissing the idea completely with a wave of his hand.  
“How am I useful but Greg’s not?”  
“Well let’s see… these men seem very keen to extract any information I have, using any means necessary. You are a doctor and they will want to keep me alive until they have what they want so…”  
“Ohhh,” John replied almost sheepishly.  
He could feel his stress levels building, his breathing felt laboured as he focused his attention back to the detective, desperate for more answers.  
“I don’t understand. If I wasn’t of any use to them, why not just kill me from the start, or straight after they finished questioning me?” he asked.  
“They thought you were still useful then.”  
“So what’s changed?”  
Sherlock sighed but did not answer and it soon became evident that he did not intend to.  
“Ok so you’re going to buy us all a little time then… so what’s your plan?” John asked, changing the subject. “How are we going to get out of here?”  
Sherlock suddenly appeared not only exhausted but also defeated as his head dropped even further. “I don’t know.”  
Greg felt his breath catch in his chest; that was the last thing he was expecting to hear. He must have misheard or misunderstood.  
“What do you mean you don’t know?” John asked. “You always have a plan. For everything!”  
He could feel his anxiety rising as he took in the unusually subdued man in front of them. It wasn’t a mistake. Sherlock really didn’t know, and that told him all that he needed about the man’s condition.  
“Yes, and the plan is to buy us more time.”  
“But Sherlock, how are we going to get out of here?” John asked him quietly.  
“I don’t know!” The pained voice caused the entire room to plummet into complete silence. “I haven’t exactly been around that much to think about it; been a little tied up with other things, or have you forgotten?!”  
“Alright, just calm down,” Greg quickly interjected. “We’ll come up with something. It just might take a little longer than we expected. Besides, Scotland Yard will be out looking for us. They could burst through this door at any second.”  
Sherlock scoffed and shook his head sadly. “The Police have no idea where we are.”  
“What makes you say that?” he asked defensively.  
“When they took me this morning, they were very eager to show me the latest news report...”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
_“Well, well well, would you look who it is. A very good morning to you Mr Holmes and what a wonderful day this is already shaping out to be.”_ _Sherlock slowly raised his head and made eye contact with the ever-intimidating Mr X. “I trust you had a good night’s sleep?” He didn’t answer but tried to stand a little straighter._  
_“I saw something on the news this morning that I thought you would be most interested in seeing.” Sherlock attempted to look both bored and disinterested, but couldn’t help but feel slightly curious as X pulled out a computer tablet with a paused video on the screen. He recognised the frozen image as that of Detective Inspector Dimmock and Sergeant Donovan. This instantly caused a feeling of dread to wash over him, as X leaned forward and pressed play. He was thankful that Rusty still had a steady hand on him as he felt his legs grow weaker with every passing second. Within the first minute, it had become painfully clear that New Scotland Yard had hit a wall in its investigation into their disappearance._  
_“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, were abducted from the Skyridge Hotel at around 11.30 on Tuesday Night.”_  
_He watched as his picture popped up on the screen next to that of his two friends. After a couple of seconds, the images were replaced by a scratchy surveillance screenshot of a white van, just a few streets west of where they were taken._  
_“We are asking the public for help in locating these three men and the vehicle used to abduct them.” Dimmock proceeded to give details on the make and model of the van as well as a description and plate numbers._  
_“It was sighted in various areas around London and was last seen in Chesham, heading north-west. We are looking for any information on the route the van may have taken once leaving central London.”_  
_The four men in the room all chuckled as they glanced at each other knowingly._  
_“We’ve got them going around in circles” Rusty muttered, an amused grin on his face._  
_Sherlock diverted his glance back to the screen where he continued to listen to Dimmock’s appeal for information._  
_“If anyone has any information about the missing men, or can provide information on the whereabouts or movements of the van in question, please call the Homicide Department at New Scotland Yard.”_  
_A series of small numbers appeared on screen before the image suddenly flicked back to a sombre looking news presenter who continued the story._  
_“Police have also been able to confirm that there is a likely link between the discovery of two bodies, and the fire which destroyed the Skyridge Hotel in central London. The two murdered men had been discovered only hours before the blaze broke out late on Tuesday night. It is believed that the officers investigating the case, were abducted by the same group of people who set the fire. Despite their best efforts, police are yet to ID the two victims but we will continue to keep you updated as the case unfolds. If you think you can help the police with their inquiries, here is that number again: 666 35724. Now to some light-hearted news, and three ducks caused chaos for a number of motorists on the M6 this morning after...”_  
_The video suddenly stopped and the three lackeys burst out laughing._  
_"Oh that’s classic!” Frank practically yelled, wiping tears away from his eyes. “I don’t know what’s funnier, the fact they have no idea what’s going on, or that they followed up with ducks!”  
_ _The three men continued to snicker as X looked on with a wide smile._

“So, they don’t know where we are...” John started, his voice failing.  
Although they had both tried to hide it, it was clear to him, just how anxious this new piece of information made them. He had no idea how to get them out of this mess, and now that a daring rescue was likely off the table... He found himself experiencing an overwhelming sense of dismay, and he didn’t like it one bit.  
“Well, hopefully something helpful will come out of it. I mean that’s why they’re doing it right? To create leads?” John asked more hopefully, turning to look at Lestrade for confirmation. The Inspector gave him a slight nod of his head but did not elaborate.  
“So the police are just going to take a little longer than we first thought, that’s why you’re trying to buy us some time right?” John continued, turning back to look at him with hopeful eyes.  
“Right,” he said sadly.  
“Ok, well just tell us what we need to do.”  
Sherlock turned all of his attention to the Inspector who looked pale.  
“Lestrade are you with me?” He asked, trying to distract the older man from the number of thoughts no doubt running through his head.  
“Yeah,” the man replied quietly.  
“You need to listen very carefully and do exactly what I say.”  
“Ok,” the man nodded, “just tell me what to do.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
It wasn’t long before Sally was summoned to the station’s front desk - there was a man there, waiting to see her. He would have been in his mid-forty’s, yet still looked quite fit and healthy for a man of his age. He was dressed in a suit and tie and he remained fairly quiet, other than to ask for a private room where they could talk. Sally directed the man to the nearest interview room, where they sat opposite each other, a small, narrow desk separating them. He placed a thin briefcase on the table and then asked to see her badge and ID. Feeling slightly irritated, she reluctantly complied and after the man was satisfied that she was who she claimed to be, he looked around the room suspiciously before finally fixing his eyes onto hers.  
“I’m sorry for the distrust, but I need to be sure that no one else is listening to this conversation and that it is not being recorded in anyway. For all intents and purposes, consider the information that I am about to give you as classified.”  
Sally was stunned by the admission but was quick to assure him that the recording devices were all switched off and that they would not be interrupted. With some apprehension, the well-dressed man finally introduced himself as Trent Williams and explained that he worked for the Home Office and was overseeing a very important case. 

“We are aware that your department has issued a number of searches and inquiries relating to a man by the name of ‘Tony Roberts’. This name and that of the Skyridge Hotel, have both been flagged on our system.”  
“Okay,” Sally replied slowly, still unsure exactly where this was going. Williams reached over and unlocked the briefcase, pulling out a small file.  
“Both names relate to an ongoing undercover operation. Our agent’s name is Alex Walters; however, he was working under the name Tony Roberts.” Williams said as he pulled out a photo of a young officer in his dress uniform.  
“When he last checked in three days ago, he reported the Skyridge Hotel at his current location. We understand he may be one of the people discovered in the building,” he continued, placing the photo on the desk in front of her. The young man was quite good looking, brown hair and piercing green eyes. He looked so proud to be wearing the uniform, a genuine smile on his face. It was hard for her to connect this enthusiastic man to the burnt pile of flesh and bones now lying in St Bart’s mortuary.  
“I can’t say for certain, but he appears to match the description given by one of the officers on scene.” Sally said carefully, running her fingers over the picture absentmindedly. Trent Williams simply nodded.  
“We understand that a second victim was found at the hotel, we need to know if it could have been this man.” Williams pulled out a second photo and placed it next to the first. The second man, in comparison, looked very nervous. Up against a plain cream wall, he appeared to be aged in his late twenties, and looked both dishevelled and extremely stressed. His black hair stuck out in all directions and his sunken eyes stared straight at the camera lens. 

“Well, it’s hard for me to say… I never saw the original scene but both officers who I have interviewed, described the second victim as being in his late teens or early twenties… This man looks a lot older. If you want confirmation, you will need to talk to one of the officers who was first on scene.”  
“I understand, thank you.” Williams replied calmly, tucking the second photo back in amongst his other files.”  
“Why? Who is he?”  
“He is a witness and informant who was in our custody. Agent Walters had been assigned to keep him safe until we could move him safely out of the city and into a more secure location. We were planning to have them moved that morning, but it would appear that, they were discovered.”  
“Why, if this guy was in protective custody, was the police not informed?” she asked, getting angry.  
“The case is one of national security and as such, was deemed to be best handled independently. I am sure you can understand.”  
Sally could feel her blood pressure rising. What the hell had Lestrade walked into? Matters of national security? Classified information? Mycroft Holmes had not been exaggerating when he said that they had stumbled across something that they could not handle.  
“So, your officer was killed… Who by?”  
“As to who pulled the trigger, we don’t know, but we do believe that it was a hit.”  
“Ok, so who put out the hit?” she asked, getting frustrated.  
“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.”  
“Well who was he protecting?”  
“I can’t tell you that either.”  
“Well what the hell can you tell me?!” Sally said, now well and truly pissed off. “I thought you said that whoever it is has gone missing! Don’t you think that we could help?!”  
“I’m sure you could, however like I said, this is a matter of…”  
“National security, yeah I heard you the first time,” she grumbled, getting to her feet. She walked over to stare at herself in the two-way mirror, aware that if she didn’t find a way to vent the growing anger inside of her, she would likely explode. “Well if you can’t tell me anything, why are you even here?” she asked, successfully suppressing her growing rage. “What do you want?” She said turning to look back at the infuriatingly calm and passive man.  
“Information.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Sherlock’s cell door opened and Rusty walked in, leaving a tired looking Jatz outside.  
“Get up!” the older man said gruffly, as he roughly jerked the detective to his feet. “Now move it!”  
Sherlock limped forward, his eyes downcast as he was marched away, without having made eye contact with either of them. As Sherlock and Rusty moved out of sight, Greg decided to make his move.  
“Hey Jatz, I need to talk to you,” he said urgently, sticking his arm through the bars to get the younger man’s attention.  
“I don’t have time for a lecture.” Jatz mumbled, as he made his way to leave.  
“Wait, I have some information!” He heard the footsteps pause and a few moments later, the man’s face reappeared.  
“What?” Jatz tried to appear uninterested and bored, but he was doing a poor job of it.  
“Sherlock was trying to ask me some questions just before and he let it slip that Tony Roberts, was really an undercover agent.”  
“What the hell are you doing?” John whispered loudly, coming right up beside him. Jatz on the other hand looked rather disappointed.  
“Shouldn’t you have known that?”  
“No, I work homicides. Undercover operations are a completely separated division. I have no knowledge of any undercover operations going on in London or any of the officers involved.”  
“Well then how does he know?” the man asked, motioning in the direction that Rusty had just taken Sherlock.  
“Something about his hands and the way he was dressed… Look I don’t really know, it’s just what he does. He can see what other people can’t.”  
“Yeah righto copper, too bad we already knew all that.” Jatz said with a snarl, moving back out of sight.  
“That’s not all!” he replied quickly. “He also mentioned the name of the case, the officer was working on.”  
“And how would he know that?”  
“Apparently it’s pretty high profile. His brother works in the government, so he hears things.”  
“Go on then.”  
“No,” he said, slightly nervous, “I want something first.”  
“You’re hardly in a position to make demands” Jatz said with a slight frown.  
“It’s not a demand, merely a request… in payment, of some new information.” He replied carefully.  
“Lestrade!” John hissed under his breath.  
Jatz appeared to be carefully considering his options, before quietly asking “What do you want?”  
“Just some basic supplies. First Aid kit, food, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, that kind of thing.”  
“You don’t think you may be pushing it a little?” The man asked cynically.  
“Hey, even prisoners in Guantanamo Bay get that much.”  
This caused a slight smile to spread across the young man’s face as he weighed up his options.  
“What the hell are you playing at?” John hissed angrily at him.  
“Stay out of it John! You need this stuff more than anyone and I don’t see Sherlock doing much to help, so why should we be obliged to keep his secrets?”  
“I’ll be back,” Jatz said, before following the others down the hall 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
“What? You can’t do that!” Sally cried.  
“I’m afraid we can. Agent Walters was protecting a very important witness who has now gone missing. It is imperative that we find out his location before someone else does.”  
“Yeah well we have three people missing as a direct result of this case and they are our officers. “  
“I understand that, but that is not our priority. We will leave that part of the investigation up to you and your department.” Sally could feel her anger about to boil over. If this guy didn’t shut his mouth soon, she would happily do it for him.  
“Our only interest at this stage is recovering our informant. He holds vital information which could protect hundreds of British Citizens.”  
“I don’t give a damn! We have three people missing; you can’t just shut us out of this investigation! What makes you think that your informant hasn’t been captured as well? They could be in the same location!” Williams remained calm and quiet while she continued her angry tirade.  
“There is a good chance the men were taken in the belief that they had information regarding the whereabouts of our missing person.”  
“Yes thank you, we have actually managed to work that bit out by ourselves. How is that going to help us though? They wouldn’t have known anything.”  
“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that, but in all honesty our best bet is to find the informant. He has valuable information about the members of this crime group. He may know a name or location of where your people are being held. I’m afraid we have little inside information of the group ourselves, which is why the safety of this man is our main priority.”  
Sally was speechless.  
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she mumbled to herself. “So you’re just going to take off with all of our information, then leave us with nothing? You are going to have the death of three people on your hands if you don’t already.” She spat angrily at the man.  
“I understand that, but we have to remember to look at the bigger picture.”  
“If you mention national security again, I swear I will hit you!”  
Trent Williams gave her a sympathetic look before placing the files back in his briefcase.  
“I’m sorry I could not be of more help,” he said, getting to his feet. “I will be expecting a copy of all your files to be ready in the next hour. I will send an agent to collect them.”  
“Don’t think this is over,” she said in a threatening voice, causing Williams to pause for a moment before walking out. Sally was left with an overwhelming urge to hit something. Hard.


	15. A New Hope

***- Lestrade -***  
Jatz walked back to their cell door less than twenty minutes later, his face void of expression. Without knowing what the young man had in store for him, Greg swallowed down the growing fear and took a nervous step forward. Thankfully his concerns were short lived, as Jatz pulled a small bag from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it in his direction.  
“There’s your ‘payment’” he said in a strong and confident voice, “now spill. I want to know everything he told you.”  
Greg could not help the overwhelming sense of relief he felt, as he looked down at the small bundle in his hands. Opening the plastic bag, he started to sift through the small number of items Jatz had no doubt collected in the brief time he was away: half a bar of soap, two muesli bars, a clearly used toothbrush and a very depleted looking first aid kit.  
“This isn’t exactly what I asked for,” he said disappointedly  
“And yet you’re lucky to get that. Now tell me what he told you, or I’ll get the rest of the boys to come drag you out and you can join your mate in the other room getting his back carved up.”  
“Greg, don’t.” John growled from behind him.  
“What I do doesn’t concern you anymore John!” he said, turning to meet the doctor’s glaring eyes. “You’ve made it perfectly clear where your loyalties lie and I for one don’t give a damn about his stupid secrets or his bloody ego! He’s going to get us all killed!” With that he turned back around and addressed the younger man. “He didn’t know what the officers name was, but he did mention that he was working undercover on the ‘Skittles’ case.”  
An instant look of victory appeared in Jatz’s eyes and a slight smile appeared on the man’s face before he turned and hurried away.  
Greg watched the young man disappear, before turning his attention back to Sherlock’s cell.  
“Well that seemed to go alright.” John muttered softly.  
“Yeah” he replied absentmindedly. Something about the door in the other room bothered him, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.  
“I swear, as soon as I get out of here, I’m gonna kill all four of those sadistic…”  
“Come have a look at this,” he said, cutting the doctor off mid-sentence.  
“What?” John replied, coming up to stand beside him.  
“Look at that,” he said, pointing over to Sherlock’s cell door. “I think they left the door unlocked.” Once he had worked it out, he didn’t know how he could have missed it for so long. The door handle was set at a slightly different angle, and looking down the row of bars, he could see the door protruding ever so slightly. Not only was it left unlocked, but they hadn’t even closed it properly.  
“Do they always do that?” John asked curiously.  
“I don’t know, I have never payed that much attention. I think I only noticed it today because I was watching Jatz and not Sherlock…”  
The two stared at the bars for what seemed like an eternity, neither wanting to say what they were both clearly thinking - that this could be their ticket out of here. 

He could see John’s eyes scanning the edges of both the barred window and the doorway. He could almost hear the cogs turning in the man’s head. If they could just find a way to get into Sherlock’s cell, they could simply walk out the door....  
Without warning, John hurled himself at the doorway separating the two rooms, using his good shoulder like a battering ram.  
“John!”  
The bars did not budge, which seemed to make the man more determined than ever to knock them down. Taking a few steps back, he ran full speed, turning at the last second to slam his entire body weight against the immoveable object.  
“John stop!” he cried, moving forward to grab the doctor before he could hurt himself.  
“Don’t you see? We can get out of here! We just need to get through this bloody door!”  
John pushed him out the way before slamming into the bars for a third time.  
“Would you just… STOP!” He eventually yelled, grabbing at the man for a second time and momentarily putting an end to John’s hysteria.  
“Just think about this logically for a minute ok? Even if we can miraculously knock out this door, then what? We don’t know where they’re holding Sherlock and even if we do manage to find him, we will be outnumbered, with no weapons.”  
“Well we can’t just sit here! You heard Jatz, they said they were carving him up! Do you just want to sit here and wait? Sit here and hope your buddies at the department suddenly grow brains and figure out where to find us?!”  
“Of course not, but we need to think this through! Just take a few deep breathes, calm down and we can start brainstorming some ideas.”  
John was breathing heavily, but his downcast eyes told him that for the time being, he had won the argument. Looking at the doctor, he noticed a small patch of red had seeped through the bandages on his shoulder. Grabbing the man and turning him slightly, he could see an even larger patch on his back.  
“Shit John, sit down would you?” He said worryingly, as he steered the doctor over towards the mattress.  
“We don’t have time for this.” John grumbled staring down at his shoulder with disgust.  
“To hell we don’t. Sit down and let me have a look at it. You’ll be no good to anyone if you pass out.”  
With an annoyed sigh John relented, and sank down onto the bed. Greg knelt down by his side and began to empty the contents of the small, plastic bag. It was a pathetic attempt at meeting his request but it was still preferable over some of the other scenarios he’d imagined taking place, when he had agreed to play along with Sherlock’s ridiculous plan.  
As he unzipped the little medical kit, his heart sunk even further as he took in its measly contents: 2 bandages, 10 Band-Aids, 3 alcohol wipes, 6 paracetamol tablets and some surgical tape. Not exactly what he was hoping for, but it was still better than nothing. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Sally stepped out of the interview room, slamming the door closed behind her. Numerous sets of eyes glanced up to stare but she was too angry to care. She stormed her way through the office towards her desk and filed through the piles of scattered paper. Within a few seconds she had found what she was looking for, and punched the small sequence of numbers into her phone. When Mycroft Holmes finally answered, she damn near exploded.  
“Did you know about this?!”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“The Home Office is practically taking over our investigation!” She continued, the anger clear in her voice.  
“That would be the logical assumption for a case of this nature.”  
Sally was once again rendered speechless. She didn’t know what pissed her off the most; the words coming out of the man’s mouth or the dispassionate way in which he said them.  
“Are you serious? Well are you also aware that finding Sherlock and the others are very low on their list of priorities? Your mate Trent Williams told me that it’s up to Scotland Yard to find them and that they will not provide any further assistance or information to help us! I ask you then, what the hell was the point of that little visit, if not to help? They have been missing for the better part of two days and we still have no idea where they could be. The Home Office has in-depth knowledge of the person or people responsible for the abduction but will not share any of the details! Frankly, I don’t give a damn about some squealer from the suburbs, we have three people missing and one of them is your brother in case you’ve forgotten!”  
“I have not.”  
“Well?”  
“Well what? What exactly would you have me do Sergeant?”  
“Help! You seem to know a lot of important people, pull some strings, hell I don’t know…” She was starting to feel emotionally exhausted. “The only thing I do know for certain, is that if we don’t do something soon…” She didn’t finish the sentence, instead she clutched hard at the phone, as she waited for his reply.  
“I shall see what I can do.”  
She let go of the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding, and sank into the closest chair. “Thank you” she said with a small sigh before the line went dead once more. There she stayed, staring at the phone and twisting her fingers together in nervous anticipation.  
This had to work.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
“Night would be the best time to do it.” John started, breaking the silence. “There’s no one around and Sherlock would be in the cell.”  
“What? And we just hope they forget to lock the door again? While he’s in there? They may be stupid John, but I don’t think they’re THAT stupid.”  
“No… but there’s a cell next to Sherlock’s isn’t there? So what’s the bet that that door is open too?”  
“I don’t know… so what are you thinking? We somehow break into next door’s cell, grab Sherlock, break into the third cell, then walk out while everyone’s asleep?”  
“Yeah pretty much, what do you think?”  
“I think it sounds pretty farfetched… I suppose it could possible… We’ll need to find a way to get through these bars without anyone noticing though, and we don’t have a lot to work with” he said, holding up a bandage and the small roll of tape. 

The two fell silent again, which gave him the opportunity to really concentrate on the mess in front of him. John’s shoulder had stopped bleeding again, but when he removed the padding, he could see the fierce red swelling which accompanied the area. Placing his good hand gently over the wound, he could feel the heat radiating from the torn flesh.  
“John, this isn’t looking so good…”  
Glancing down at his shoulder, John inspected the area in and around his wound.  
“It’s becoming infected,” the doctor said quietly with a sigh “What’s the back look like?”  
“Pretty much the same, just bigger.”  
“Any sign of discharge?”  
“No.”  
“Well that’s something at least.”  
“What can we do?”  
“Not a lot… bandage it, keep it as clean as possible until we can find a way out of here.”  
“At least we have some supplies now,” he said, trying to sound positive.  
“Mmm” John replied, getting to his feet. Greg grabbed the soap and the first aid kit and made his way over to the sink where John took him step by step through what needed to be done. Within minutes, John had gone an alarming shade of grey, his grunts and cries kept to a minimum through nothing other than sheer determination.  
By the time they had moved on to clean the exit wound, he thought John might pass out. They were being more thorough with the cleaning process this time around, trying to stop the infection before it caused more problems. The extra attention to detail was taking its toll on the doctor and by the time he had finished, John was pretty much out of it. After some debate, he was able to convince John to take one of the paracetamol tablets before helping him back to the mattress. Within minutes John’s eyes were closed and Greg was left alone to process the afternoon’s events in peace.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dononvan -***  
She held her breath as she answered the call, unable to even say hello. Fortunately, Mycroft Holmes was not one for small talk.  
“I have arranged for you to work in consultation with the Home Office on this particular case, however, it is under the strict condition that you and you alone, will have access to classified information. You will not be able to share this information with anyone else in your team or the department, but you will have access to all the evidence and will be able to point your people in the right direction.”  
“Okay,” Sally replied, a slight tremor in her voice.  
“I cannot stress how important it is, that information from this case remains a secret. You may not care about their case now, but you soon will. The recovery of the informant must remain the Home Office’s main priority. I will have someone come and collect you from Scotland Yard shortly. You will need to sign a confidentiality agreement, so make sure you don’t break it. Even I, will be unable to help you if you do.  
“I understand, it’s just… shouldn’t you be telling all of this to Detective Inspector Dimmock? After all, he is lead investigator on this case and he’s…”  
“No,” Mycroft replied, cutting her off “this agreement is for you and you alone.”  
“But why me?” There was a long pause.  
“… My brother does not respect, nor trust a lot of people Sergeant Donovan.”  
“You’re not seriously trying to tell me that I am one of them are you?” She asked with a slight laugh.  
“Sadly no, however Detective Inspector Lestrade is. Sherlock holds him in high regard and trusts him unconditionally, therefore by association, I do as well. The Inspector in turn trusts you Sergeant, therefore I must fall on his judgement into your character and trust you will not compromise this investigation by repeating something you shouldn’t.”  
Sally didn’t know what to say.  
“See to it that this trust has not been misguided.”  
“I won’t, thank you,” she replied, her voice somewhat shaky.  
“Oh, and Sergeant? Find my brother.”  
Sally nodded silently for several moments before remembering that he couldn’t see her.  
“Of course.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
The sound of scrapping eventually pulled him out from the depths of sleep. He tried to look around to find the source of the irritating noise, but each time he moved, a sharp shooting pain was sent through his shoulder and down into his arm and chest. Grunting, he craned his neck backwards, just enough to catch a glimpse of Lestrade, who appeared to be fiddling around with something on the floor. Disappointed and in pain, he slumped his head back to softness of the mattress and tried not to get angry.  
“What are you doing?” he asked with clear irritation. They were supposed to be finding a way out of there and instead he was bailed up in bed with a busted arm and Greg seemed to be mucking around.  
“You’re awake!” Greg replied unnecessarily.  
“Yeah, what are you doing? I thought the plan was to try and escape!”  
“It is, I’m working on it. I’m trying to make a screwdriver.” Greg replied, turning towards him.  
Confused and in pain, John slowly and carefully sat up to get a better look at the inspector and the object in his hand.  
“What are you talking about?” he asked hesitantly.  
“Look!” Lestrade replied, passing him the old toothbrush Jatz had given them earlier. The head of the brush was still there, but the plastic at the bottom had been scraped away and was starting to resemble the shape of a flathead screwdriver. “I’ve still got a way to go but I’m hoping that when I’m finished we can use it to get through the window.” He continued, motioning behind him.  
John starred at the small plastic tool then back up to the window in fascination.  
Getting to his feet, he walked up to the barred space, noticing that Sherlock’s cell was still empty. Perhaps more importantly, however, was the sight of the large screw heads, holding the frame in place. Moving the tool up closer, he could see that Greg had in fact shaped the bottom of the toothbrush to fit the screw; it was just too thick to fit into the small gap. It would still take some time to file it down before they could try to use it, but for the first time since waking up, tied to a chair with a bag over his head, John felt optimistic.  
“What can I do to help?” He asked, turning back to look at the inspector.  
“Nothing really, it’s still going to take me some time to get it down to the right shape and size.” Greg replied, holding his hand out to collect his creation. Somewhat reluctantly, he returned the makeshift tool so Lestrade could get back to work. As the slow scrapping sound started up again, he looked back up at the window and couldn’t help but wonder, if their plan could actually work.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
He had been scrapping away at the plastic toothbrush for what felt like hours, when he first heard the slight crashing sound, coming from somewhere nearby. Glancing over at John, it became obvious that the doctor had heard the strange sound too. Listening carefully, he was soon able to distinguish footsteps headed in their direction, accompanied by an occasional crash of something metal.  
“Looks like they’re bringing Sherlock back again,” John muttered sombrely.  
The two stared at each other for a long time before Greg finally snapped into action. He quickly stashed the plastic tool in his jacket pocket and rubbed at the area of concrete with his shoe, erasing all signs of his previous activity, just as Jatz arrived into view. The younger man carried a folded ladder, which crashed together as he pushed it through Sherlock’s cell door. Both he and John had tried to talk to their young captor, but their questions went unanswered as Jatz once again vanished out of sight.  
The two of them remained silent, they were both thinking the same thing: What’s the ladder for? 

It didn’t take long for them to find out, as an exhausted and bloody looking Sherlock stumbled in, supported on either side by Jatz and Frank. Fresh blood ran freely down his beaten and bloody torso. His shirt had been removed and replaced with an assortment of dark bruises and deep cuts.  
The two thugs walked him towards the direction of the mattress before deciding to drop him on the hard ground instead. Sherlock landed with a painful thud and groaned while he slowly dragged himself over to the bed. It was only then that Greg understood the extent of what had been done to him.  
“Oh my god,” he heard John whisper, echoing his own thoughts exactly.  
Sherlock’s back had been shredded. Bloody red lines occupied the swollen flesh in their hundreds, crisscrossing the delicate skin until the area resembled mincemeat more than it did human flesh. Blood ran freely from the cuts, which also featured predominantly on other areas of his body, namely his arms and chest.  
He wanted desperately to call out to him, but knew that he couldn’t. He had to play his role and more importantly, he needed to be convincing. With this in mind, he did perhaps one of the hardest things he had ever had to do – he walked away. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
The first few cuts to his arms and chest had not really bothered him. Even as they got deeper, he had been able to distance himself from the pain. It had only been after the first 20 whips of the lash that he found his resolve start to crumble. His first cry of pain was heard around lash 48, and silent tears started to flow at 56. By the time his knees had given out, he had lost count of how many times he had been flogged with the long, leather whip. In the end, it didn’t matter. He still hadn’t talked, and X once again left for the night with little to show for his day of interrogation. He could see that the man was starting to feel the pressure; that last session had by far been the worst. They appeared to be escalating the violence; no longer were simple stress positions and food deprivation enough; they wanted to make him bleed and they were doing an excellent job of it. 

His back felt raw and torn, the pain was debilitating. Blood pooled in the various crevices of his skin and ran in a sticky mess all over his body. He didn’t want to move from his spot on the bed, but the sounds of bricks being stacked and chains being dragged, was a good indication that he would not get his wish.

“Right! You know the drill.” Frank said, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and flipping him onto his mangled back. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”  
Once again, he remained silent.  
“Tell us what we wanna know and we’ll leave ya alone. Don’t tell us and we’ll get all creative again.” Frank continued, gesturing towards the objects piled in the centre of his cell.  
Six bricks lay stacked on top of each other, while a length of chain hung from a hook in the ceiling next to a ladder. He wondered briefly, if there had always been a hook there, or if that too, was a recent addition to his small prison. For the life of him he could not remember, and that concerned him more than he wanted to admit.  
“Well? What’s it gonna be smart ass? You ready to start talkin’ yet?”  
He mustered what little energy he had remaining to give Frank his best look of defiance. “When are you going to get it through your thick skulls, that I am not going to tell you morons anything.”  
Frank’s smile quickly turned into an angry snarl, as he stepped forward and punched Sherlock across the face.  
“Oh you will, I promise.”  
Before he knew it, Jatz had handcuffed his hands together and he was being lifted onto the small stack of bricks. It wasn’t particularly high but the nature in which they were stacked, meant that the tower was not very stable, and he found himself swaying dangerously.  
One end of chain was looped through the centre of the handcuffs, while the other was pulled tight, forcing his hands high above his head. The chain was secured so that there was just enough slack for him to bend his elbows and move his shoulders slightly, but also enough, that it would hurt if he fell. Looking down, the ground suddenly seemed very far away. If he were to slip, his feet would not touch the floor.  
“Oh, and I almost forgot. I’m supposed to give ya this,” Frank said, holding up another muesli bar. “I even made sure it wasn’t apricot since I know how much you hate ‘em.”  
Frank walked back and climbed up two rails to place the small bar in his left hand. “Enjoy,” the man said with a smirk, before he folded up the ladder and left.  
Sherlock had never wanted to kill someone so badly before in his entire life. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Just looking at Sherlock’s abused body had been enough to make him feel ill. But as he watched the man balance unsteadily on the small pile of bricks, he couldn’t help but admire him. He didn’t know how he was still standing. If it had been him up there… the thought sent shivers down his spine and he tried quickly to shake it away. 

Sherlock took a moment to look up at the muesli bar, but almost immediately, started to lose his balance. It only took him a few seconds to regain his equilibrium, but John could read the pain and frustration written all over the man’s face.  
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.  
“Mmmmm,” came the weak reply. He could feel Greg walk up to stand beside him, staring in at their injured… friend? Acquaintance?  
As much as he would have liked to refer to him as friend, there were still a lot of unresolved issues between the three of them. It made him feel horrible, knowing that this need for answers was still so strong, considering everything that Sherlock had clearly been through. He wanted to put it all aside and forget about it, but deep down he knew he could only hold back the questions for so long.

“You’re not looking so good,” Greg muttered beside him. The inspector’s face had gone pale and he briefly wondered whether his own face showed the same look of horror and disgust.  
“Mmmm,” Sherlock replied with a sigh, his eyes still focused intently on the ground.  
“How bad is it?” he asked after a few moments of awkward silence. Sherlock did not reply. “Ok then, let me put it this way… If this was a competition… would I still be winning?”  
“I’d say we’re about even,” Sherlock replied weakly.  
He had never heard his housemate sound so defeated before, and it worried him.


	16. Reconciliation

***- Sherlock -***  
His whole body screamed for attention. His back, his chest, his arms and most annoyingly, his empty stomach. Figuring out how to get into the small, wrapped bar had soon become his top priority. He stared up at the object suspended high above him, trying to figure out how he could possibly get at the food inside. His mouth watered with the idea and his stomach growled, making him desperate for the sustenance. His hands shook slightly as they moved towards each other and carefully tore at the plastic wrapper, freeing the bar from its packaging. The smell of honey hit him instantly, and the sudden distraction, caused him to momentarily loose his balance.  
Tearing his eyes away from the small treat, he forced himself to slow down and to think about what his next step would be. He could feel the sticky texture between his fingers, as he tore a small piece from the bar. Looking back up, he opened his mouth wide and tried to centre it under his hands. When he was confident that the two were lining up, he dropped the small piece of food, hoping he could catch it in his mouth. He watched the piece of muesli fall and disappear out of sight before feeling it hit his chin and bounce to the floor.  
With an annoyed sigh he tried again, this time hitting the skin just below his right eye.  
On the third attempt he finally got lucky, but he was so eager for the food that he swallowed it whole, berating himself immediately afterwards.  
The next time he successfully caught a piece, he forced himself to chew the small morsel six times, before finally swallowing and trying again.  
He continued this technique and the more he succeeded in catching, the more distracted he got. After a while, and without even realising it, his mind had completely lost focus on anything but the need to consume more food and soon it was all he could think off.  
He should have known better than to allow his mind to wander. He should have known better, and forced himself to take his time. But he didn’t, and after taking a wild grab at a piece muesli, he felt himself falling. 

He bent and twisted his body frantically, trying to regain some sense of balance, grabbing at the chains above his head to try and further steady himself. After a couple of heart pounding seconds, the shaking stopped and Sherlock had once again found his feet.  
“Wooooww, be careful. Are you okay?” John asked from the other room. Sherlock took a few shaky breathes before he dared move again.  
“Stop asking me that!” he said with an annoyed growl, before carefully looking up at his now empty hands.  
His heart sank as he looked back down at the ground and saw the half-eaten bar lying amongst the lost remnants of the only food he’d had in three days. It was enough to make him want to cry.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

***- John -***  
He watched the detective look back up at his now empty hands and then down to the floor where the remainder of the bar now lay. The look in Sherlock’s eyes said it all, and he felt a wave of guilt rush over him as he glanced over at the two untouched bars which lay abandoned on the floor by their feet.  
“So Sherlock,” he started, trying to distract the man from his lost supper. “You said you were going to fill us in… What’s going on? Who are these people and why are they doing this? What do they want?”  
A part of him felt horrible for asking, but at the same time both he and Greg really wanted… no, needed to know what was going on. They needed to understand why this was happening.  
After a few moments, the detective took a deep breath and raised his head.”  
“Clean?” he asked quietly, and it took a moment for John to understand.  
“There are no recording devices. No one’s been in there since they came to get you this afternoon.” Sherlock nodded slightly and closed his eyes, opening them again almost instantly, when he started to sway.  
“Sherlock, you promised,” Greg said quietly.  
“I know,” came the tired sounding voice. It took several seconds before Sherlock continued. “Everything I have done… I’ve done with the best intentions.”  
“So you keep saying, but you are yet to explain what exactly you mean by that,” Greg replied.  
“You don’t understand,” Sherlock mumbled quietly.  
“Then tell us,” John replied gently, promising himself that he would give the man a chance to explain.  
“I knew you were here… both of you,” the detective eventually said. “When the flash grenades went off at the hotel, I was stunned, but I could just make out what was going on. The two of you were already unconscious by the time the men came in. There were seven in total and they were looking for something. They were angry. I could see them hovering over the two of you, so I was fairly certain that you had both been taken as well. I therefore had some time to think about how things would play out and I made some strategic decisions, based on what I knew about the people who took us.”  
“And who are these people?” Greg asked.  
“I’m not entirely sure, but my guess is, a group from the Scarlet Rose. At the very least it is them who are giving the orders.”  
“The Scarlet Rose… that’s the crime syndicate you mentioned the other day at the scene?” he asked.  
“Yes.”  
“What do they have to do with all of this? I thought the Scarlet Rose only dealt in Class A drugs and the occasional petty theft,” Greg asked, confused.  
“It’s a long story.”  
“We have time.”  
Sherlock sighed. 

“About six months ago, there were rumours afloat, that the Scarlet Rose had started to smuggle black market weapons into the country. Their well-hidden drug connections made it difficult to confirm however, so nothing was ever done about it. About a month ago, Mycroft’s office was tipped off about a possible terrorist organisation running in both England and Wales, with connections to a number of Middle Eastern countries and links to the Scarlet Rose.”  
“How on earth do you know all of this?” John asked in astonishment.  
“Most of it I picked up through my usual channels, but then Mycroft came to see me about three weeks ago. He wanted me to use my underground connections to try to either confirm or disprove the rumour. I put a call out to the homeless network and a few of my other associates, to keep their ears open for any information. Then, about a week ago, a man came forward with some information. It was regarding a series of attacks which were planned to take place in a number of highly populated cities in both England and France. Apparently, he was willing to provide information which would not only stop the attacks, but blow the lid off the whole organisation…”  
“Who is he?” Greg asked, looking at Sherlock with a new found interest.  
“He’s only known by his nickname.”  
“Skittles,” John said quietly, finally connecting a couple of the scattered dots. Sherlock nodded.  
“The last I heard, this man was in protective custody. My guess is, they were at the Skyridge Hotel.”  
“You think they tried to kill him?” Greg asked curiously. “You’re saying that’s what we walked into – the end result of an attempted assassination?” Finally, the pieces were starting to fall together. Sherlock slowly nodded in confirmation.  
“Fortunately, the would-be assassin was a bad shot and the officer did his job. Skittles got away.”  
“Okay…” he started, looking from Sherlock to Greg with some confusion, “but what does that have to do with us?”  
“Nothing,” Sherlock said tiredly.  
“Then why take us?”  
“Information - they thought we knew something. We were at the crime scene after all. If we had picked up the informant, then we would know where he is.”  
“But we didn’t and we don’t!” He said, noting the slight sound of panic coming from his voice.  
“And they know that now… well… sort of.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“They know that you and Lestrade don’t know anything, but they think I do.”  
“And do you?” Greg asked suspiciously.  
Sherlock paused. “Not exactly.”  
“What does that mean? It’s a simple question Sherlock. Yes or No?” Greg said, getting frustrated.  
“Why do they think you know something?” he said quickly, trying to defuse Greg’s growing tension.  
“Because of the note.”  
“Do you know what it says?” he asked quietly, taking a step closer to the bars.  
“Not exactly.”  
“What does that mean?!” Greg cried, clearly annoyed by all the cryptic answers.  
“It means I don’t know!” Sherlock replied, glaring back at the Inspector.  
“Okay, okay!” he said, putting a hand on Greg’s shoulder to try to calm the man down. They had already established that yelling would not achieve anything and they both wanted Sherlock to keep talking. “Just… tell us what you do know.”  
Sherlock was quiet for the longest of times before he finally mumbled in a sad and tired voice, “I don’t know if I should.”

It was muttered so quietly that he barely heard it, but the implications were loud and clear.  
“Well why the hell not?” Greg asked angrily. “We deserve to know everything Sherlock! Especially after all you put us through!”  
Sherlock remained silent, shaking ever so slightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking intently at the two of them “I didn’t think it would go that far.”  
“Well what the hell did you think was going to happen? They made it pretty clear from the start what they were going to do! Where’s the mystery?” Greg asked angrily, shooting the detective a dirty look.  
“You could have stopped them at any time.” John said sternly, trying to control his conflicting emotions.  
“I had to think of the bigger picture.”  
“Yeah, I get it, National security and all that… but we’re your friends, Sherlock. You…”  
He had to turn away, as the memories and emotions all became too much for him. He walked towards the back of the room, put his head against the cool wall and tried to pull himself together.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

***- Lestrade -***  
He turned back from John, just in time to see Sherlock’s head drop towards the floor. For some unknown reason, this made him even angrier.  
“I don’t care who this guy is Sherlock, but he’s not worth risking all our lives over… You could have told them something, but you didn’t, you just sat there! You didn’t even blink! We were both screaming at you to help and you did nothing! Why?!”  
“I couldn’t”  
“Why?!”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, his head still towards the ground.  
“Sherlock!”  
“Do you think it was easy for me?” Sherlock ground out angrily. “You have no idea what I’ve been through!”  
“Well then please enlighten us,” he replied, sarcastically.  
“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the two of you! To protect you!”  
“And what a bang up job you’ve done.”  
“Yes! As a matter of fact, I have! I don’t see either of you chained up to the ceiling with a shredded back!” Sherlock yelled, glaring at him.  
Sherlock’s sudden outburst had caught him by surprise. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen the man get so angry and upset before.  
“Have a think about it Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a couple of minutes. “What do you think would have happened if I had said anything?”  
This comment too, took him by surprise. The question seemed ridiculous. “They would have stopped,” he said, his voice still bitter but significantly quieter.  
“Then what?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaky with suppressed emotions.  
“What do you mean?” He had never thought about that before. What would have happened?  
“You know exactly what I mean,” The detective said coldly.  
“I… I don’t know.”  
“Well since you seem to remember that room so well, answer me this. When Frank was breaking your fingers, what happened when John told them there was a third person in the room?”  
He turned to look at John who seemed to be frozen against the wall. 

_His pained eye’s searched first for Sherlock and then John, as he silently pleaded for their help. Frank took a firm hold of Greg’s middle finger, and he scrunched up his face in preparation._  
“Yes! Yes there was!” John yelled.  
He slumped in relief as his finger was dropped and Frank moved away. 

“He stopped.” Greg said slowly, turning to look back at Sherlock in confusion. Where was this going?  
“And then what happened?”  
He could remember Mr X asking John a lot of different questions, to which the doctor didn’t know the answers. He could also remember Sherlock not offering any assistance and he could feel his anger start to return before he remembered what was said.

_“I think Rusty, it is time to up the stakes.” X announced, moving back into the centre of the room.  
It would appear as though your work colleague is merely that, but surely you would hold some fondness for the good doctor though. The two of you do share a flat after all.”_

He looked back at John, who was slowly making his way back over towards the window, his face unexpectedly pale. He felt himself go numb as he finally made sense of what Sherlock was saying.  
“Well?” the detective asked, anger still clear in his voice.  
“They drilled a hole in John’s shoulder,” he answered quietly, feeling sick as he said it.  
“Right! They escalated! And that was just John, John didn’t know anything. What do you think would have happened if I had talked? Where do you think you would be right now?”  
“I don’t know,” he muttered, feeling like the world’s biggest jerk.  
“Well I’ll tell you. There is a very small possibility that you would be in the same situation you are in now; more likely, you would have been beaten and tortured severely. If you were still alive, you’d be wishing you weren’t. The most likely scenario, however, is that your body would be lying in a shallow grave, somewhere remote where no one would find it. John would probably be lying next to you, perhaps all three of us.”  
Both rooms fell quiet, as the words slowly sank in.  
“If I had said anything at all, then they would have kept using you to get to me. They would have kept escalating until the two of you were dead, or until I had told them everything, in which case they would have killed us all anyway.” Sherlock’s voice had lost a lot of its anger and he once again sounded exhausted.  
“The only way I could stop that from happening, was to keep my mouth shut. You make it sound like it was easy for me, but it wasn’t.” Sherlock swallowed deeply and stared intently at John before continuing. “When they put that bag over your head and you… I almost told them everything... Two seconds more and I would have.”  
All the anger had disappeared from Sherlock’s voice, leaving nothing but raw and barely contained sadness. “When they took me out, Rusty was giving you CPR. I was locked in that freezer for hours not knowing if I had killed you or not.” A tear escaped from Sherlock’s eye and he was quick to wipe it away with his arm “I’m sorry.”

He felt tears in his own eye’s start to form as the weight of the truth finally hit him. He felt like the world’s biggest dick. He had been such an ass to Sherlock, giving him shit for not caring, when he couldn’t have been further from the truth. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

***- John -***  
He looked at his best friend, arms handcuffed above his head, swaying on the small pile of bricks and felt like Judas. God knows what the man had endured over the last three days and all for their safety.  
“Sherlock…” he whispered softly.  
The detective shook his head., looking up sadly to meet his eyes. “I thought you knew me better than that.”  
“I’m sorry, I should have known, I should have...”  
“John please... I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Sherlock’s head slumped forwards as if it were suddenly too heavy to hold. The man looked exhausted.  
John could feel the tears starting to form as he turned his head back towards Greg. “We need to get him out of here. Tonight.”  
Greg nodded quietly in agreement, then he pulled out his handmade screwdriver. The slight sound of scraping started up again, causing Sherlock’s forehead to crease in confusion. John stood there watching his friend for several minutes, before the man’s head finally lifted.  
“What’s that noise?” he asked thickly, signs of fatigue clearly showing.  
“It’s Greg, he’s working on our escape plan.”  
“Ohhh,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly more awake. “Was I apart of this escape plan?” he asked in a conversational tone. The scraping sound stopped, as both he and Greg looked up at the detective in shock.  
“Of course you were,” Greg answered sadly before resuming his work, slightly faster than he had been previously.  
“We wouldn’t have just left you here Sherlock, no matter how we felt at the time.”  
Sherlock didn’t say anything but he did nod slightly, acknowledging their reply. “So what’s the plan then?”  
“Well, Greg managed to score us a couple of things with that little deal earlier today…” He suddenly fell quiet as the implication of what he just said and what he was seeing in front of him, finally clicked into place. “Oh my god.”  
Sherlock, anticipating what he was about to say, lowered his head back towards the ground and sighed heavily, closing his eyes.  
“What?” Greg called questioningly but John just ignored him, his eyes never leaving his bound and beaten best friend.  
“They escalated,” he said, suddenly feeling very ill. “We gave them information and they escalated. Oh my god Sherlock, your back.”  
Sherlock turned his head slightly, as if trying to see the damage that the whip had caused. “It’s fine.”  
“No, it’s not fine! We did that!” he continued in absolute horror. “And you want us to tell them more?!”  
He could hear the scraping sound get louder and faster as Greg took out his anger on the small piece of plastic. Sherlock remained still and silent, with his head towards the ground. “I’d rather this than the alternative,” he said quietly. 

A loud crash echoed through the room and he spun around in time to see Greg kick at the metal bars separating their two cells. The man’s face, contorted with suppressed sorrow and rage, but despite the sudden outburst, the inspector said nothing; choosing instead, to get back to work.  
“So what’s the plan?” Sherlock asked again, trying to change the subject. John took a deep breath and tried again, pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside.  
“Jatz gave us a couple of things, in exchange for the information; just like you said. Among other things, he gave us an old toothbrush. Greg is in the middle of making it into a flathead screwdriver. The hope is that we can undo the screws holding the window bars in place then we can climb in there to get you.”  
“Ok,” Sherlock said slowly, “then what?”  
“Well we noticed that when they took you this afternoon, they didn’t close or lock the door. We’re hoping that means that the door to the cell next to yours will be the same, considering there’s nobody in it.”  
Sherlock smiled, and huffed a small laugh, “hoping.”  
“Well it’s the only plan we’ve got,” he answered defensively.  
“How long Lestrade?”  
“I think I’m almost finished. An hour tops.”  
“The test will be whether it works or not.” Sherlock said sadly. “Plastic verse steel.”  
“It’ll work,” he said forcefully, putting an end to any further discussion.  
Sherlock simply nodded and let his head slump down once more. John looked on in despair as he watched his friend’s legs wobble more and more with each passing moment.  
After a few minutes, he heard Sherlock sigh and softly mutter the words all three of them were all thinking.  
“I hope so.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

***- Dimmock -*  
** After a long and stressful drive out to the suburb of Enfield, Peter arrived at the scene to find the whole street cordoned off. Anderson was in the back of the van, collecting various samples from the floor, but neither he, nor his team had found any evidence to indicate any blood had been shed. In fact, they had found no evidence that anyone had been in the van at all. No Blood, no DNA, no stray hairs or fingerprints, nothing. Both the inside and outside of the vehicle and been thoroughly cleaned, which told him that whoever had orchestrated the abduction, knew exactly what they were doing. The only evidence they were successfully able to collect, was an image of the van’s tire treads which had been sent away for comparison against those found at the abandoned warehouse. From there, he had gone in search of the couple who had found the van, only to be told that they had been allowed to leave. Apparently, they were running late for an appointment of some kind, which did nothing to improve his mood. According to the two officers who had taken their statement, the couple had noticed the white van on their way to the train station that morning. They were a middle-aged couple who lived a few streets away. They had no criminal record, other than a few driving infringements - no reason for them to be considered suspects. 

He knew from experience, that finding CCTV footage this far out of the CBD was going to be difficult, so he had gone directly to the Cockfosters railway station. It was there, that he had spent the majority of his afternoon, sifting through hours of footage of the platform. After talking to various residents around the area, they had established that the van had been dumped between 5 and 9am that morning, which unfortunately also meant peak hour on the railways. Dozens of people had made their way to the station, on their way to school or work. The only thing Peter had going for him, was that Cockfosters is the very first (or last) station on the Piccadilly line; therefore, if the van’s driver had got on a train, it would have been in the one direction. Even still, it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. There were dozens of men, standing around the platform during those hours, and not one appeared to be acting suspiciously. He had no idea who this person was, or what they looked like. Hell, he didn’t even know if they had come to the station in the first place! 

Eventually, Dimmock took copies of the video files and had started to make his way back to central London, feeling as though his day had been nothing more, than a colossal waste of time. His mind wandered back to the first time he had ever met Greg Lestrade, a few days after transferring in from Cambridge. It had started as a fairly simple homicide case, which had become slightly more complicated when their prime suspect took a swan dive off a 15-story hotel balcony, just as he had gone to arrest him. The amount of paper work on that one had been immense. Internal investigation, wide spread media coverage... The whole thing had turned into a circus. 

He had been sitting at his desk late one night, when Lestrade had walked in and set a cup of coffee down on the desk in front of him.  
_“Thought you might need it,” the man said with a smile. “Tough first case you’ve got there. You sure know how to pick them. At least you know you had the right guy.”_  
He looked up at the older man, seeing nothing but understanding and sympathy in his eyes. “True,” he replied tiredly.  
“D.I Greg Lestrade,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to the team.”  
“D.I. Peter Dimmock and thanks,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand.  
“Well if you want a hand with anything, just give me a call, even if it’s just to vent. Don’t stay here all night, ok?”  
“Will do, cheers.”  
“Anytime.” 

It wasn’t anything overly special, but it was enough to get the memories flowing. Like the first time he had met John and Sherlock at one of his crime scenes. Holmes had called him an idiot within the first five minutes and John had quietly pulled him aside to apologise. He had worked with all of them, many times, and although the memories were not always fond ones, he held a deep-rooted respect for all three of them. It wasn’t long before his thoughts turned bad, and he started to remember some of him more gruesome crime scenes. The faceless victim who had been found tortured to death; the head, hands and feet removed and left out in the sun to rot. The bags of partially decomposed body parts, found floating in the Thames... He started thinking about the countless John Doe’s he had sent off to the morgue and about the hundreds of faces which sit within the missing person database… He viciously shook the thoughts away and forced himself to think about all the progress they had made so far… but truth be told, they still had very little to show for their efforts.  
Every person in law enforcement knows that the first 48 hours of a case is crucial, particularly when dealing with missing people… It had been over 40 hours already and they still didn’t seem any closer to finding them. For the first time since discovering that the three men had been abducted, Dimmock found himself unwillingly wondering whether they would never find them.


	17. Problems in Purgatory

***- Sherlock -***  
Everything hurt, his entire body. In fact, there wasn’t one single part of him that didn’t hurt. His broken nose had still not set - each new punch to the face was ensuring that. His shoulders burned, as did his legs and back. His feet still stung from the deep cuts, his wrists rubbed raw from the restraints. His head ached, his ribs ached, hell, even his jaw ached after two days of clenching and grinding his teeth. Even the trips to his mind palace did not stop the pain anymore; nothing would, except the oblivion of sleep… or death.  
He looked over at the filthy mattress with longing. There was nothing else he would rather do right now than to make the pain stop, even just for a little while. The darkness called to him, trying to draw him in.  
“Come on Sherlock, you need to stay awake,” John called out, pulling him back into the real word. He blinked heavily a few times before slowly moving his head in John’s direction and giving him his best glare. “I’ve got an idea, let’s play a game,” John continued, ignoring his hostile look.  
“Not in the mood,” he replied tiredly.  
“Well we have to do something. You look like you’re about to doze off,” John said sadly. “How about we just talk then?”  
If there was anything that Sherlock wanted to do less than play a game, it was talk; particularly considering how their last conversation had gone.  
“Fine, what’s the game?”  
“Um, ok. Well… someone chooses a topic and the other person chooses a letter. We take it in turns to say a word matching the topic that starts with that letter. For instance, we could do male names starting with the letter P. So, I might say Peter, then you’d say Paul and so on. The last one standing is the winner.”  
“Sounds straight forward.”  
“Do you want to pick the first topic?”  
“Ok… The Periodic Table.”  
“How about something we both have a chance at?” John replied patiently, causing him to smile ever so slightly. “I know, how about countries to start off with? You can pick the letter.” Sherlock thought for a few seconds before deciding on the letter ‘B’  
“Ok, I’ll go first…” John said, suddenly becoming very serious. “Belgium”  
“Belarus” he replied quickly, remembering his last case there.  
“Bulgaria.”  
“Brazil.”  
“Bosnia.”  
“It’s Bosnia and Herzegovina,” he corrected John tiredly.  
“Whatever, close enough, it’s your turn.”  
“Ahhh… Bolivia.” Thinking was becoming harder and taking longer, he didn’t like it.  
“… Burma.”  
“There is no Burma.”  
“Yes there is, it’s in Asia,” John replied defensively  
“It’s not called Burma anymore,” he continued quietly.  
“Well what is it called?”  
“Myanmar”  
“Really? When did that happen?” Lestrade asked from his spot in the doorway.  
“About 20 years ago,” he said with a sigh.  
“Seriously?” John replied incredulously.  
“Mmm.”  
“Well, there you go. Um…ok then… Bangladesh.”  
“…Botswana.”  
“Uhhh…” John was quiet for a long time, moving his hands around in thought before they slumped down in defeat. “Britain?”  
“Not a country,” he said  
“Pft, good try,” Lestrade added.  
“Uhhh… Yeah I’m out. Have you got anymore?”  
“Several.”  
“Okay then, let’s try a different letter, how about T?”  
“I’m really not in the mood John,” he said tiredly, looking back over towards his mattress miserably.  
“How much longer do you think this is going to take?” He overheard John ask Lestrade quietly but he did not hear the answer.  
“Hey, I’ve got one for you Sherlock, it’s a bit of a brain teaser.” Lestrade called out, still scraping away at his plastic tool. He knew that the two of them were only trying to help, but he was finding this incessant talking extremely irritating. “I’m planning an expedition to the moon and each person is only allowed to take certain items with them. Choose two items and I’ll tell you if you’re allowed to come. Here, I’ll go first. I’m going to take gloves and lemons.”  
“Why would you take lemons?” he asked with more than a hint of annoyance. He could already tell that this game was even more pointless than the last.  
“It’s just a game. Okay, it’s your turn John.”  
“Umm, okay… I’m going to take… food and water.”  
“You can take the water but not the food. Sherlock?”  
He really didn’t understand what was going on but decided to have a go anyway. If Lestrade knew the answer, it couldn’t possibly be that hard.  
“Gloves and water,” he said confidently.  
“Sorry, you can’t come.” Lestrade replied casually, taking a moment to quickly glance up at him.  
With some surprise, he felt a little upset. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he had been outsmarted, or whether he was reading too much into Lestrade saying that he couldn’t come. He was too tired to be doing this. Everything was becoming confusing.  
“Can I take either of them?”  
“No, sorry. Right, so I’ll take some grapes and a lighter,” Lestrade continued, turning back to his project.  
“What use is a lighter going to be in space? There’s no oxygen,” annoyance was quickly moving to anger.  
“It’s a game Sherlock, it doesn’t have to make sense. John?”  
“Right, so can I still take water?”  
“Yep.”  
“Okay, water and some grapes?”  
“Sorry, you can’t come. You’re not allowed to bring grapes. Sherlock?”  
“I don’t want to go on your expedition, it sounds stupid and illogical.”  
“Come on, you just have to figure out the pattern, that’s all. Here, I’ll go again. I’ll take a guitar and a laptop.” Lestrade was trying to be encouraging, but it did little more than piss him off. He didn’t want to play their stupid games, he wanted to get off this stupid tower and go to sleep. He wanted a sandwich and a whole pile of painkillers. Hell, at this point he would even agree to a hospital.  
“I don’t know,” he replied angrily, but neither John nor Lestrade seemed to notice.  
“John?” Lestrade continued, and John was eager to have his turn.  
“Um, so I can still take water? Can you?”  
“No.”  
“Can Sherlock?”  
“No,” Lestrade answered again, this time looking up at the doctor with interest.  
“Right… I’ll take water and a jumper?”  
“Yes! Well done, you can come.” Lestrade said with a smile. John turned to look at him with an equally large grin on his face, which did nothing more than further frustrate him.  
“What?! This game is stupid,” he said with clear annoyance which seemed to only amuse the other two further.  
“You never know, he might have fluked it. Do you want another go?” Lestrade asked, so he forced himself to play along. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to work out.  
“I don’t know… a wombat and a gun?”  
“No, sorry you can’t take either,” Lestrade replied with a smile. “I’ll take a glue stick and a lobster.”  
“I’ll take some Jelly and a watermelon,” John said confidently.  
“Yeah you got it,” Lestrade said with a smile. “Sherlock?”

He could feel his heart pounding, becoming faster and faster the longer the game went on. The long list of injuries had taken its toll, so had the lack of food and sleep. His mind was becoming more and more sluggish, and being reminded of it was not helping his current mental state. If anything, it was making him panic.  
“I don’t know, I give up,” he mumbled, hoping that would put an end to the game and the humiliation.  
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Lestrade said, looking up at him once more, his work with the toothbrush temporarily forgotten. “Listen, you can take shoes and a hammock.”  
“Okay fine, I’ll take that,” he said numbly, trying to control his emotions.  
“What’s two more items?”  
“I don’t care!” The words had exploded from his mouth without him even realising it. “I don’t want to play your stupid game, I can’t concentrate! I’ve lost track of the last time I’ve slept. My back feels like I was dragged 10 miles over barbed wire and I’m hanging from the ceiling by my hands! I don’t care!” 

The room went so quiet that his deep, pain-filled breathes were the only thing that could be heard. The uncomfortable silence continued for what seemed like an eternity, no one wanting to be the first to break it.  
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Lestrade said sheepishly, resuming his work silently.  
“We were just trying to keep you awake,” John said apologetically. This just made him feel bad.  
“I know… I’m sorry, I… I just need to rest for a while,” he said with a sigh, closing his eyes and trying to bring his heart rate back down to a more reasonable level.  
“Okay, just… don’t fall alright? Keep your eyes open. If you feel yourself drifting off, let us know.”  
He slowly opened his eyes and gave the doctor a slight nod before watching the man, walk over and squat besides the Inspector on the ground. He couldn’t hear what the two of them were saying, but he guessed it was probably about him. He moved his neck and shoulders around as carefully as possible, trying to relieve some of the building pressure, before looking over towards the bed once more. If only… 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
The man was a genius! Even as he stood there looking at it, he could barely believe his eyes. Apart from the fact that it was white and had a head of bristles where the handle should be, the new tool looked remarkably like a flathead screwdriver.  
“I think we’re ready,” Greg said, glancing at him and then at Sherlock, a look of unease on his face. He understood completely the man’s hesitation. This was it - the moment of truth.  
They had been talking about it all day. Planning and hoping and wishing, but now that the time was finally here, he found himself dreading the outcome. What if it didn’t work?  
There was nothing worse than being trapped with no hope of escape. The first day had been absolute hell, but then finally, they were given a glimmer of hope, a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Once they got it, they had run with it; not once looking back or considering ‘what if…?’ 

For the first time, the whole idea suddenly seemed crazy. All their hopes of escape lay on a stupid piece of plastic. He suddenly understood Sherlock’s lack of enthusiasm when they had first told him about their plan. In some ways, it was harder to have false hope than no hope at all…  
Despite this, the detective seemed to be more awake now than he had been for a while. He too, stared on in anticipation, a hopeful longing in his eyes.  
Time seemed to slow down, as Lestrade positioned the tool onto the head of the first screw and tried to turn.  
After several tense seconds, Greg pulled away with a sigh.  
The screw hadn’t moved.  
Sherlock’s head dropped silently back towards the floor and John felt his heart plummet through his chest.  
“Now what?” he mumbled miserably.  
Greg quickly examined the head of his plastic screwdriver before holding it out for John to take.  
“You should try,” the man said suddenly.  
“Why?”  
“My right hand’s useless,” Greg replied, holding up the offending limb with his deeply bruised and swollen fingers, now taped neatly together. “I have bugger all strength in my left one. Your right arm’s still good, you might have more luck.”  
“Ok,” he said quietly, holding his hand out to receive the small tool. Greg stepped aside and he slowly moved in to take his place. Part of him didn’t want to do it, feel the disappointment, but he knew he had to.  
His hand shook as he positioned the tool on the screw head, taking a deep breath before attempting to turn.  
Slowly but surely, the screw head shifted.  
John was so surprised at first that he stopped, thinking that he had imagined it. With more determination than ever, he returned to the task, and felt the screw move once more. It worked! It was slow, yes, but it worked!  
His heart soared as he looked over to see the wide grin on Greg’s face and the look of relief on Sherlock’s.  
They were going to make it, he was sure of it.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
By the time Peter had arrived back at the Yard, he was well and truly pissed off. Three times he had tried to call Donovan and three times she had let her phone ring through to message bank. He walked through the building with barely controlled rage and barged his way into the tech lab, only to find that she wasn’t there.  
“Where’s Donovan?” he asked loudly, startling the three men working there.  
“Ahhh, I don’t know sir. I haven’t seen her since early this morning.”  
“Well, where is she? She was supposed to be getting the CCTV Footage brought in from Enfield!” he said angrily.  
“Oh yes, we got that,” the tech assistant replied quickly. “It arrived around 10am this morning. That’s what we’re going through now.”  
“And?” he asked impatiently. “Have you managed to track down where the vehicle came from?”  
“Not yet sir. The coverage is not as wide spread in the suburbs as it is in the city.”  
He knew that of course and yet it was still disappointing to hear.  
“You haven’t spoken to Donovan at all?”  
“Yeah, she rang around 1 o’clock asking for a progress report and asked us to leave a message if we found anything.” Dimmock could feel his frustration growing.  
“She didn’t tell you where she was?”  
“No sir, just that she was going to be away from her phone for most of the afternoon.”  
“Well that’s perfect!” he said with a growl, before storming out to find Jenkins.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself slamming the door to his office and yelling obscenities at the computer screen. The whole case was an absolute friken disaster. Not only had they found next to nothing at either scene, but they also had no leads, no suspects and in general no idea as to what the hell happened. To top it all off, now he finds out that Home Office had been in and taken copies of all their files! Not only that, but it seems that Donovan has been taken away as well. Surely, she wouldn’t have just left without contacting him first? 

He picked up the phone and dialled the number to the Home Office intending to get some answers. After being passed on from one person to another for over half an hour, he eventually got hold of someone who told him that Sergeant Donovan was ‘unavailable’ and that any further information about where she was or what she was doing was simply ‘classified’.  
_‘Classified my ass!’_ He thought angrily to himself as he slammed the phone down, picking it back up almost immediately. For the fourth time, that day, he punched in her personal number, his heart sinking when he heard the familiar recorded message.  
“Donovan, I don’t know what you’re up to, but you better ring me as soon as you get this and let me know what the hell is going on! Furthermore, you better have a bloody good reason why you’ve been dodging my calls all afternoon!”  
He slammed the phone down yet again and rubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. He wanted answers and he wanted them now!

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Removing the screws from the metal frame was turning out to be a long and arduous process. Although the tip of the tool stayed in place easily enough, it was the rest of the device that was proving problematic. With nothing substantial to grip, the plastic body twisted and turned in his hand. After spending close to ten minutes removing the first two screws, he and Greg had come across a much faster method of doing it. John would loosen the screws with the tool and Greg would finish the process with his good hand. It wasn’t always fool proof - occasionally, John would not loosen them enough, or they would get in each other’s way, but after working on it for another fifteen minutes, they had removed double what John had managed by himself.

It was just as he was loosening the ninth screw, that he heard the faint sound of footsteps headed in their direction. A quick look at Greg, confirmed that he wasn’t imagining it, so he quickly hid the tool and screws in his pocket. A few moments later, a man appeared outside. It was the same one who had come in with Frank the night before. A wide grin crossed the man’s face as he first caught sight of Sherlock hanging from the ceiling. “Comfortable?”  
When no answer was forthcoming, the man turned and left with a slight chuckle, glancing in at their cell as he walked past. The whole thing wouldn’t have taken more than a minute at max, but it had shaken him. If they were caught trying to escape… He didn’t want to think about what might happen. 

Several minutes after the man had left; Greg decided to ask Sherlock a few questions about him. The detective told them that he didn’t know the man’s name, but that he would come by to check on things every two hours throughout the night. When Greg had commented that he couldn’t remember ever seeing the man the previous night, Sherlock had replied, rather bitterly “that’s probably because you were asleep.”  
He felt horrible. Not just because of the guilt, but because they now had a new problem to factor into their escape. They would have to plan around these routine checks.  
Another two hours to finish the screws on their window and two hours to work on Sherlock’s window before having to return for the next check. From there, they would make their escape. If all went well, they would have almost a two-hour head start before anyone would even notice they were missing. The only downside to the plan, was that it would be a minimum of four hours before they could make their move, and that was only if they were able to stick to those time frames. That itself was going to be difficult, seeing as though they had only removed eight of the fourteen screws and their tool was starting to lose its effectiveness. The edges of the screwdriver head, had started showing signs of fatigue. He just hoped that, it would hold out long enough to see them safely out of there.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Donovan was knee deep in classified papers when she heard her phone vibrate, indicating that she had missed yet another call. Strictly speaking she wasn’t meant to have her phone on her at all whilst viewing the classified files, (something to do with security) so she wasn’t going to risk pulling it out, not while they were still watching her. 

Within twenty minutes of hanging up from Mycroft Holmes, she had been picked up in a black town car and driven to the Home Office Headquarters where she had been fully briefed on both the case and her responsibilities. It had been made perfectly clear since stepping foot inside the building, that they would be keeping an eye on her. Truth be told, they didn’t want her there. She was nothing more than an obstacle to slow them down and take attention away from the real target. It was no real surprise then, when she found herself shut into a small room with a pile of files to read over. It didn’t really bother her too much though, it gave her the opportunity to familiarise herself with the whole case, and not just the cliff notes they deemed necessary to share. It was with some surprise however, when she noticed the dates on some of the files, spanning back over the last six months. Files full of documents detailing the investigation into underground weapon sales and organised crime. At first it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary, but as the hours ticked by, she started to grasp, just how big this case really was.

As she dug further into the files, she came across surveillance reports of several key figures, thought to have had links with terrorist organisations and training camps operating within the UK. Agent Williams had not been lying when he spoke about there being a bigger picture. As much as it pained her to do so, she had to finally accept that things would not change. The Home Office would not spare any resources to look for Lestrade. Their priority would always be to locate their informant, alive or dead. They could not afford to let this man disappear off the face of the planet, no matter what the consequences.  
Despite all this, she promised herself not to leave the small room, until she had caught up on everything, and had something to offer the investigation back at Scotland Yard. 

So far there seemed to be very little. A few key figures stood out amongst the ‘Scarlet Rose’ as potential suspects, however they were currently being investigated. The unfortunate truth of the whole matter, was that an organisation of that size, could have hired just about anyone to carry out the hit and abduction. The Home Office was currently on red alert, tracking everyone with possible links to the case, hoping they would lead them to potential hostages. So far, all they had really found was a trail of destruction. Former members and several homeless people had been hospitalised with serious injuries over the last 24 hours, and all were unwilling to talk. This just proved that whoever these people are, they were searching for this man (code name: Skittles) just as much as they were. It was clear from the evidence, that the informant was still on the run, but that information was completely useless to her. It had only just passed 7 o’clock, and there was still a nice stack of unread folders to go... It was going to be a long night.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Keeping Sherlock awake and lucid was becoming more difficult by the minute. After the detective had finished reciting a list of Mozart songs, Greg had stopped for a moment, glancing first at Sherlock and then back to John with concern. They could both see that Sherlock was fading fast. His voice came out thick and heavy, his words slurred. Even back in the dark days, when Sherlock was in the depths of a cocaine induced stupor, his words had never slurred like they were now. His head was still slumped, eyes barely open and he swayed badly on the pile of bricks. They needed to keep him awake and the best way to do that was to keep him talking, keep his mind working. It was painful for all three of them, but they couldn’t just stand by and watch him fall. There would be plenty of time for him to sleep once they were all out of this mess.

“Sherlock, I’ve got a hypothetical question for you.” He said quietly, trying to get their friend’s attention.  
“Mmmm?” Sherlock murmured weakly.  
“A plane crashes in the middle of its journey between country A and B, and half the passengers are killed. Neither country claims the land in which the plane went down, so where would you bury the survivors?”  
At first Sherlock didn’t respond and he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the man hadn’t heard the question. He was just about to repeat it, when he heard the quiet reply.  
“Wouldn’t you just bury them back where they came from?  
His voice was concerning him, but his answer had concerned him even more. He saw John stiffen and turn his head to look at the detective. The doctor’s face was a mix of emotions: sadness, worry, hurt and panic. All the things, he himself was feeling.  
“So you’re saying A?” he asked after a little while.  
“S’that where they all came from?”  
“That’s where the plane left.”  
“No, I mean… Is that where they lived?”  
“Well, we don’t know,” he said slowly. “We weren’t given that information. Look, do you want me to give you the scenario again?” He said, hoping that Sherlock had just not heard him properly.  
“Kay.”  
“A plane crashes in the middle of its journey between country A and country B. Half the passengers are killed. Where would you bury the survivors?”  
He said it slower and clearer this time, hoping that Sherlock would understand, but he didn’t.  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighed with annoyance. “I s’pose it’d be A… if that was where the flight… ‘riginated from... The’d take the… wreckage… back for investigation.”  
He felt as though someone had punched him in the chest. John had momentarily stopped working and the two were staring up at the detective with concern.  
“It was a trick question Sherlock…” he said sadly, “you don’t bury survivors.”  
“Ohhh,” came the defeated sigh as the detective’s head dropped even further.  
“Are you okay?” John asked quietly.  
“I just need… some sleep.”  
“You can’t go to sleep right now Sherlock or you’ll fall off.” John continued, turning back to resume his work. “Just a little bit longer okay? You’re doing great.”  
“You said that… hour ago,” the detective slurred.  
“I know, we’re working on it,” he said quietly. “How about you tell us the twelve signs of the zodiac?”  
“I don’t know,” the detective replied tiredly.  
“Oh come on, just…”  
“Ahhh no, he really wouldn’t know any,” John said quickly beside him, cutting him off.  
“Okay… how about, you give me a list of the things you don’t like about Anderson?”  
He heard the detective give a slight huff of amusement before he muttered “be here all day.”  
“Good, it should keep you awake for a while then. Just start from the beginning.”  
“He’s an idiot.”  
“Ok, what else?”  
“He’s annoying… got… bad hair… and his voice… is irritating.” Sherlock continued weakly.  
“That’s good, just keep going.”

As Sherlock continued his list, Greg turned back to John who was having a particularly challenging time trying to loosen the remaining three screws. They were firmly held in place, and John’s inability to grip the gadget very well, meant that the task was becoming extremely difficult.  
John’s teeth clenched and his whole right arm shook with effort, as the tool suddenly turned, flicking out from the head of the screw.  
“Shit!” the doctor hissed, as he quickly inspected the tip of the tool.  
“What is it?” he asked quickly, taking a step closer to try and see what had happened. With a downcast face, John slowly handed him the makeshift tool. His heart sank as he saw the twisted plastic, the sides having all but disappeared as they curled around one another. He felt like swearing himself.  
“What’s the matter?” Sherlock mumbled quietly, his head upright, trying to see what had caused the sudden outburst.  
“Not sure yet,” he mumbled in reply, hoping the detective wouldn’t be able to read him in his weakened state.  
He gently pushed John aside and tried the instrument on one of the remaining screw heads, but it was no use. The tool was practically useless, unable to keep its grip on the metal lip. There was no way they could use it like this, and they still had three screws to go; not to mention the fourteen in the other cell.  
“Shit,” he said slowly in agreement, before ducking down to the floor and trying to reshape the twisted plastic into something usable.  
“What happened?” Sherlock asked again, trying to get their attention, but neither he nor John were really listening, too focused on the problem at hand.  
After a couple of minutes of furious filing, He stood back up and tried the tool again with similar results. The plastic twisted almost immediately, the sides of the point, folding in on one another. Both he and John could do nothing but sink their heads in quiet despair.  
“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Sherlock called, sounding annoyed.  
He and John looked at each other, neither one of them knowing what to say. Not knowing whether to lie, or tell the truth.  
“Nothing to worry about yet, we’re just having some… technical difficulties.” John said quickly, trying to reassure the man, but even half asleep, Sherlock was not falling for the lie and he turned to stare at him intently.  
“Lestrade, what’s going on?”  
He really didn’t want to tell him. Sherlock needed something to hold onto, something to keep him going. John knew it too, it was why he had lied.  
“The metal weakened the plastic and the tip has twisted out of shape… We won’t be able to use it for a while, until I’ve had the chance to fix it.”  
“How long?” Sherlock muttered, sounding weak and defeated.  
“I’m not sure. I’ll work as fast as I can. Hopefully I can have it done before our new ‘friend’ comes back around.”  
Sherlock didn’t reply, his eyes glancing over towards his mattress for a moment before focusing on the scraps of food below him. It was enough to make his heart clench painfully.  
“Keep your head up Sherlock,” he heard John say as he resumed his work. “We haven’t given up, and neither should you. We’re going to get out of here, I promise… It just may take a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have JUST realised that I think John is actually left-handed… I’m not sure though… Anyway, in this story he is right handed, because I can’t be bothered changing it. UNLESS Greg is also left-handed, in which case it might work… seriously, I can’t be bothered. I apologise.  
> On a separate note, did anyone figure out the space trip puzzle? If you think you know what the pattern is, how about you help Sherlock out and list two items that he could take (but don’t give it away – I’ll reveal the answer next chapter)


	18. The Long Night

***- Dimmock -***  
Peter was standing by the evidence board, staring blankly at the assortment of notes and photographs. Despite their efforts, all they had managed to find were a series of dead ends and random facts. Perhaps the most frustrating thing, was that he could not, for the life of him, see any connection between any of it. He glanced over towards Sherlock’s photo and wished that he could somehow channel the man’s brilliant deductive skills. Truth be told, if their positions were reversed, he was fairly confident, that Sherlock would have found him by now.

“Sir, the analysis of the van’s tyre treads has come back,” Jenkins said quietly, as he walked over to join him.  
“And?” he asked gingerly, having already assumed the worst.  
“They don’t match the tyre prints lifted from the warehouse.”  
“That doesn’t really surprise me,” Peter said quietly, trying to hide his disappointment.  
As soon as they had run a background check on the vehicle’s registration, it had become obvious that the plates had been forged. No registered vehicles anywhere in the United Kingdom held those number plates and yet there were at least two white vans which now displayed them. “They sure know how to cover their tracks.”  
He rubbed his forehead in frustration and stared back at the board in silence. This was beyond ridiculous, someone had to know something! Home Office clearly thought they did, or they wouldn’t have taken all their files and slapped a classified sticker on it. Donovan must know something too if she had disappeared with them. Damn her for not answering her phone!  
“What should we do now sir?” Jenkins asked softly.  
“There’s not a lot we can do. We have officers tracking down every white 2007 Volkswagen Transporter within a 500km radius.”  
He could feel his anger boiling up once more. There must be something they could do, they couldn’t just give up. “I tell you what, put a call out. I want us to start looking nationwide. We need to know where these vans came from and who owns them. We also need to get our men back out there looking for that second van. Stay clear of Enfield. In fact, I want you to stay clear of northern London all together. They left that van in plain sight; they wanted us to find it. They wanted us to turn our attention towards the northern suburbs. My guess is that they are still in the west, perhaps even the south, we need to get our people out there looking for it. We find the van, we find them.”  
“Yes sir, I’ll get right on it.”  
“Good, let me know if you find anything,” he added as he made towards the exit.  
“Of course. Where are you going?”  
“Home Office!” he declared loudly, pulling his coat back over his shoulders. “I need to talk to Donovan and I want to know what the hell is going on with this case. If they’re not going to pick up the phone to talk to me, then I’m going to go down there and yell at them until they do!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Greg had managed to file away the worst of the weakened plastic, along with most of the shape. Although it was coming along nicely, it was taking an eternity. Glancing back up at Sherlock, he could see his friend’s head slumped. His eyes were closed and he was rocking backwards and forwards, instinctively shifting his weight to keep balanced.  
“Come on Greg,” he whispered urgently, “that other guy will be back soon. We’ve already wasted over an hour; we need to get this finished!”  
“Look, I’m going as fast as I can. If I don’t do this properly, it’ll just happen again the second we start using it.”  
He knew that of course and he trusted Lestrade, it’s just that each time he looked up at Sherlock, the man seemed to have deteriorated even more. The bruises and cuts were becoming more and more pronounced. They needed to get him out of there before the others could hurt him again. They needed to get him out of there tonight.  
“How much longer?”  
“I wish you’d stop asking me that. As soon as I know, you’ll know.”  
Looking back at Sherlock, his concern over his friend only grew, as he observed the man’s left knee buckle slightly.  
“Sherlock wake up!” he yelled frantically, trying to get his friend’s attention. “Open your eyes, your swaying. Sherlock!”  
“Hhmm?” the detective replied softly, his eyes slowly opening.  
“Come on talk to me. What’s the periodic symbol for potassium?”  
“What?” came the confused mumble.  
“Potassium, what is its periodic symbol?”  
“… I don’t know…” Sherlock replied thickly, “K?”  
“Good, and what about Sodium?”  
“Umm… Na.”  
“Plutonium?”  
“… Pu.”  
“Good, are you awake now?”  
“Yeah,” his friend sighed tiredly.  
“Listen, we’re on the home stretch. Just a little bit longer, then we’ll all be out of here. Just stay awake okay?” The only reply he received was a weak grunt. “Sherlock, do you understand? You need to stay awake.”  
“Why?” the detective asked in a small and confused voice.  
The sound almost pierced a hole through heart. “Because if you don’t, you’ll fall and it will hurt. You need to open your eyes and look at me.”  
“John?” Sherlock asked quietly “s’at you?”  
“Yeah, it’s me; I’m still here, so is Greg. Did you hear what I said?”  
“Gotta stay ‘wake.” His voice was slurring but he seemed more aware, which was just about all he could hope for at this stage. Swallowing down his concern, he glanced back to Greg and silently willed the man to go faster.  
“Okay Sherlock, new game,” he said suddenly breaking the silence. Sherlock tiredly shook his head.  
“No m’re games.”  
“Yeah, come on. We’re going to list things starting with the letter P.”  
“J’hn,” Sherlock started.  
“Nope, that starts with a J, we’re doing things that start with a P. Here, I’ll go first… pineapple.”  
Sherlock sighed once more and his eyes slowly closed. For a while he thought that Sherlock would stay quiet, but a few moments later, he heard another loud sigh and a tired voice say “pirate.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
“Sir, if you don’t calm down, I will have to call the police.”  
“Go ahead, I _am_ the police! I’m not going anywhere until I talk to Sergeant Sally Donovan.”  
“I have already told you sir, I don’t know who that is. Now if you could just take a seat, I will try to get someone down to talk to you.”  
“I don’t want you to just handball me off to somebody else, I want to speak to someone who knows what the hell is going on. I’ve been on the phone with you people all afternoon and I’m not leaving here until I get some answers!”  
“I understand that sir and I apologise, however…”  
“Fine! You call whoever you want but I’m telling you know, that I am not leaving until I speak to Sally Donovan!”

Peter stormed over towards the small waiting area and dropped into one of the uncomfortable plastic seats. Five minutes later and just as he was considering starting up his tirade again, a man in a dark suit appeared from a doorway and called his name. He followed the tall man through a series of corridors and into a small interview room, no doubt to avoid making any more of a scene.  
“Now what can I do for you Detective Inspector?” the man said calmly, which did nothing but further irritate him.”  
“I’ve come to see Sergeant Donovan. It’s my understanding that you people came to our office and took copies of all our files on a double homicide case and then whisked away with one of my officers! I want to speak with her immediately and I want to know what the hell is going on!” 

He was breathing heavily now, his fists clenched by his side. The man opposite him, calmly took a step backwards and motioned towards one of the empty chairs.  
“Please, take a seat.”  
“I don’t want to sit down, I want some answers.”  
“Suit yourself,” the man replied quietly, walking around to take a seat on the other side of the small table. “There is not a lot I can tell you, I’m afraid. The case is classified.”  
“So you keep saying, but I’m sorry, I’m just not buying it.” Peter said defiantly, leaning in to glare at him.  
“You can believe what you like, but it doesn’t change anything.”  
The two men stared at each other in silence for several moments, before Peter reluctantly took a seat.  
“What can you tell me?” He eventually asked, angrily. The agent was quiet for several moments before finally responding, choosing his words very carefully. After a few minutes of basic background information, Peter was possibly angrier than when he had first arrived.  
“I want to speak to Donovan,” he demanded again and this time received a nod in agreement.  
“Very well, I will go and get her.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
Thinking was becoming hard. Solving problems wasn’t fun anymore. Even trying to remember basic information was becoming difficult. Even easy things, things he had known for years, just seemed to allude him somehow. He’d lost track of time, lost track of everything. How long had he been there? How long since he’d last slept? He knew it must have been a long time because even now and then, he could feel the weight of his eyelids pushing down.  
“Sherlock?”  
It was John. He was waiting for him to say something, what was it they were doing again? Listing things. What sort of things? Things starting with a letter. What letter?  
“w’at you say?”  
“I said panther.”  
The letter P then. What else started with the letter p?  
His brain felt slow and sluggish. He was finding it difficult to focus, to remember. What had he already said? What had John already said? He couldn’t remember. Did it really matter? Why were they doing this anyway? He felt his eyes close.

“Sherlock, stay with me, keep your eyes open.”  
John again, he sounded upset. “Come on, things starting with the letter P.”  
He slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus on John’s face, but his head was too heavy and it dropped towards the floor. What were those things he was standing on? Why was he standing on them?”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Ahhh… penguin,” he finally replied tiredly. He didn’t want to play anymore, he was too exhausted. His eyes shifted to the half-eaten muesli bar on the floor and he wondered, not for the first time, how it had gotten there.  
Eventually he would remember though, just like he had with the bricks. He would remember why his back hurt and why his arms were pulled tight. He would remember why his stomach ached and why his legs shook. He would remember, and then instantly wish that he hadn’t.  
“Sherlock?”  
He wasn’t going to play anymore. He was tired and he’d had enough.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Sherlock had stopped responding to his voice and was mumbling to himself, swaying dangerously from side to side, his knees buckling beneath him. The detective’s face was void of everything, his eyes unfocused, staring towards his mattress as if in a trance.  
“Sherlock!”  
He felt sick to his stomach as he watched the man’s eyes close and his balance waver, the bricks rocking beneath him.  
“Sherlock! Wake up!” he called again, with no response.  
No doubt sensing his distress, Lestrade looked up at their friend and called out in his best authoritative voice. “Sherlock Holmes! Open your eyes right now!”  
Both he and Greg sighed in relief as Sherlock responded almost immediately, his eyes partially opening.  
“Now don’t you dare close them again; do you hear me?” Greg continued, “keep your eyes open.”  
Sherlock’s eyes slowly closed again, his head shaking ever so slightly.  
“Sorry.”  
The word was barely audible but it screamed alarm bells.  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade tried again, this time with no luck.  
John felt his stomach clench painfully as he continued to watch Sherlock sway dangerously, his movements becoming less and less controlled. He was going to fall.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Everything happened in slow motion…  
First the detective’s knees folded, causing him to lose his balance and pitch forward. The man’s feet slid out from beneath him, causing all but one of the bricks to go cascading backwards over the concrete floor. Sherlock’s eyes flew wide open in panic, his face screwed up in pain as he tried desperately to find his footing. The tips of his toes brushed across the top of the few remaining bricks, but not enough to save him from the horrible pull on his arms.  
“Sherlock!” he heard John scream, as the man tried desperately to tear out the metal bars separating the two cells. Even with the majority of the screws missing, the frame would still not budge. They were left standing there watching Sherlock struggle, knowing there was nothing either of them could do.

A few moments later, he heard footprints running towards them, and the night guard appeared, coming to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of the now swinging detective.  
“Ha! I was wondering what all the yelling was about,” he said with a small snicker before looking down at his wrist watch. “Five and a half hours, not bad. Although Frank’s gonna be pissed, he put money on the fact you wouldn’t last more than two.” The man said with a smile, taking a picture of the scene on his mobile phone.  
“Please, just help him!” John called through the bars desperately, but the guard just laughed.  
“Have a good night lads,” the man said as he turned to leave. “Only six and a half hours left to go.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Sally had just opened the last of the case folders, when the door to her small room unexpectedly opened and a man walked in.  
“Sergeant Donovan, my name is Agent Henry Ward. I am working on the ‘Skittles case’ and have been assigned to partner up with you,” he said, walking forward and offering a hand. Sally ignored the gesture, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
Ward appeared to be an ordinary man of average height; probably in his late thirty’s. There was nothing that made him stand out above any of the other agents she had seen that day, but for some unknown reason, she instantly disliked him.  
“You mean to keep an eye on me?”  
Agent Ward’s hand slowly dropped, and an awkward smile appeared on his face. “If that’s the way you want to look at it,” he said carefully, reaching forward to grab a file. “I see you’ve been catching up on things. Do you have any questions?” He continued, opening the folder to flick through its contents.  
“Just one. What gives you the right to withhold potential lifesaving information on a kidnapping case? Even just five percent of this, could be invaluable to our investigation. We’re talking about three men’s lives!”  
“I would have thought that was fairly obvious after reading through the files,” he answered nonchalantly. “Besides, isn’t that why you’re here?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“To act as a sort of… bridge, between our two departments?”  
“And what does that mean exactly?”  
“You’re aware of our situation. We cannot afford to let our informant disappear, and we can’t risk sharing any of this information at this stage of our investigation. It’s for that reason, that we’re unable to help with your man hunt.”  
“Unable, or unwilling?”  
“Both,” he replied honestly, taking a step closer. “We need to find our man. Time is already of the essence. We can’t afford to sit around and decide what information you may or may not need, it’s not logical. You on the other hand, as you so elegantly put it, know what information is going to be helpful to your case. That’s why the Home Office agreed to this arrangement.” Sally couldn’t help but laugh.  
“Oh you ‘agreed’ did you?”  
Ward didn’t respond, choosing instead to scratch at a mark on the side of the table. After a few more moments of silence, Sally dropped the subject, shaking her head in disgust.  
“So why are you here?” She asked angrily. “Come to give me more files to read? Or are we actually going to get out there and do something?”  
“Neither, you have a visitor.”  
“A visitor?” That was the last thing she was expecting to hear.  
“Yes, I believe you know him. A Detective Inspector Dimmock? He is being very persistent; says he won’t leave until he’s talked to you.”  
Sally felt her back straighten and her heart rate increase. “Where is he?”  
“I’ll take you there in a minute. But first, we need to have a little discussion about what information you are going to share.”  
Sally was dumbfounded. “You have got to be joking.”  
“You don’t know this about me yet Sergeant, but I don’t joke.”  
A few moments of disbelief, followed by several minutes of irate arguing, eventually resulted in Sally reluctantly submitting to Ward’s request. She had to grit her teeth as the agent listened and pondered over everything she said; analysing every detail and fixating over every word. It was insulting in every way, but eventually the man was satisfied.  
“So, can we go now?” she asked angrily.  
He got to his feet and motioned towards the door, “after you.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Sherlock continued to groan in pain as he thrashed around in a blind panic. Each movement jerked his body in a different direction, causing the metal cuffs to dig further into his skin.  
It took several heartbreaking minutes before the panicked movements gradually slowed, leaving the man exhausted. The detective’s eyes were tightly closed, teeth clenched together in pain as he slowly waited for his body to stop swinging. Sounds of ragged gasps resonated throughout the room, causing John’s heart to clench painfully in his chest.  
“It’s going to be okay Sherlock,” he called quietly, not entirely sure that he believed the words himself.  
His friend looked absolutely terrible. Blood covered his beaten body from head to toe. Most of it was old and had dried to the skin but the injuries to his wrists and back were still painfully new. Every so often, he would see a drop of the sticky red liquid, run off the man’s body and fall to the floor. He was alarmed at just how much that small puddle had already grown, since the other men had brought him in. 

The guard had said six and a half hours to go… what would that do to man in Sherlock’s position? What sort of damage could he expect? Shoulder dislocation, ligament damage. Restricted blood flow to the hands could lead to irreversible damage, even the need for amputation. The thought made him sick.  
As Sherlock slowly spun back around, he noticed that his friend was holding his breath, his face still scrunched in pain.  
“Sherlock you’ve got to breathe,” he called softly, hoping the detective could hear him. Sherlock’s face trembled and turned red, until the lack of oxygen caused him to gasp. His friend sucked in as much air as he could before repeating the process all over again.  
“Sherlock that’s not going to help,” he said weakly, feeling his own strength start to drain. It caught him by surprise when he felt a tear roll down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, as Sherlock continued to sway, unresponsively.

He looked down at Greg for what felt like the hundredth time that night but did not say a word. He didn’t need to. They both knew the seriousness of what was happening; they both wanted the same thing. He could see it in Greg’s face - the determination, the desperation. The man was working as fast as he could. 

Turning back around, he felt a sudden wave of dizziness rush over him, causing him to stagger slightly into the wall. He closed his eyes and rested his head between the bars for a moment, waiting for the feeling to pass; all the while fighting the sudden urge to throw up.  
_‘Not now!’_ he thought angrily to himself, as he tried to regain some composure. His shoulder had been bad all afternoon but now it cried out for attention. He glanced down at the off-white bandages and saw a number of red dots slowly appear. _Damn it, he had done it again. Greg was not going to be happy._  
Turning his back towards the Inspector, he pressed his right hand against his injury, managing only a slight moan which went unnoticed thanks to Sherlock. His hand pressed down hard as he leaned the majority of his weight against the wall. He tried to focus his attention back on his flatmate, and ignore the heat now radiating from his shoulder. He would have to deal with it later, right now he had more important things to worry about.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
Peter looked down at his watch for the twenty fourth time. His patience was wearing thin. It was nearing 10.30pm and he had already been waiting for well over forty five minutes. At first he had been angry that things were taking so long, but now he was just annoyed. He was tired. It had been a long day and if they weren’t going to let him see Donovan, the very least they could do was tell him, so he could go home and get some sleep.  
Standing up, he took a tired stroll around the small room and checked his phone for messages – still none. With an overwhelming sense of disappointment, Peter wandered back to the chair where he sank into it heavily. Checking his watch for the twenty fifth time, he sighed deeply, leaning forward to rest his head on his loosely crossed arms.  
Without warning, he heard the undeniable sound of a lock being turned and his head snapped up in time to see the same officer re-appear in the doorway, with Sally right behind him.  
“Donovan!”  
He couldn’t help the small sigh of relief, as he quickly stood up to greet her.  
“I’m sorry about not answering your calls Peter, I’ve been a little tied up with things,” Sally replied quickly.  
“So I’ve heard. Care to explain what the hell is going on?” he asked, indicating to the man behind her. “Who is this? Why are you here? What happened to our case?”  
The two guided him into a small room, where the man took a seat behind a small desk.  
“This is Agent Ward, he’s been assigned to work with me on the case.”  
“What case?”  
“Our case.”  
“Why is the Home Office interested in a kidnapping case?” he asked, confused.  
Sally went very quiet as if unsure of what to say. She slowly made her way around the table taking a seat next to Ward. Suddenly he felt like a naughty boy who had just been sent to the principal’s office.  
“Ahh… it’s complicated.”  
“Well un-complicate it,” he said quickly, shaking away the thought.  
“They’re not actually interested in the kidnapping; they are interested in the murder case. It’s why they took all our files.”  
“Why are they interested at all? What aren’t you telling me?” He said leaning forward on his arms, making Sally look uncomfortable.  
“I would love to tell you but I can’t, it’s classified.”  
Dimmock felt his fists clench on the table in front of him as his anger threatened to spill out in a verbally abusive tirade. He closed his eyes and counted to five, trying to regain some level of composure. He was sick of hearing that line. It was unhelpful and it made no sense.  
“Sally, it’s late. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Donovan launched into what was clearly a rehearsed performance, sharing very little, in the way of useful information. Most of it seemed to be centred around one of the murder victims, who had apparently fallen victim to a hit, but in terms of the kidnappings, there was almost nothing to go on.  
“So how do Lestrade and the others fit into all of this anyway? Why were they abducted?”  
“We think it was a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”  
“This is the same ‘they’ that hired a hit man who killed Roberts?”  
“His real name was Alex Walters, but yes, we believe so.”  
“Yet you’re not going to tell me who they are? The one piece of information, we actually need and you’re not going to tell me? Why are you here anyway? How did you get clearance in all of this?” He asked angrily.  
“Mycroft Holmes.”  
“Holmes?”  
“Yes, Sherlock’s older brother. He works for the government or something. He pulled some strings to get me on the taskforce. The idea is that I can provide the department with information that can help with our investigation into the abduction.”  
Dimmock was speechless. He looked at his sergeant in disbelief before replying, quite sarcastically “Well you’re doing a great job.”  
“Give me a break!” she said defensively. “I’ve been trying to catch up on these files all day. As soon as I had something to share, I was going to call it in.”  
“Sounds like you have a lot to share, you’re just not going to.”  
“Don’t give me that Dimmock. You have no idea what is going on here or what’s at stake. Believe me, I felt the same way as you when they first pulled me in, but also believe me when I say, there is a bigger picture. I will help where I can. Try to lead you in the right direction, but there are just some things I can’t tell you.” She looked tired and upset. This day had clearly not been easy on either of them.  
“Well, what can you tell me?”  
“I’m still going through the case files, but I can tell you that the Home Office is currently monitoring several people of interest. One person I can tell you about is Jack Redden. He was the gunman at the scene, the second victim. He’s a 21 year old from central London, but we don’t have a lot of information on him yet, mainly because he’s seen as just a pawn. Also, forget Tony Roberts, looking at him won’t get you anywhere. If I were you, I’d start with this Redden kid. Find out how he got involved, maybe someone knows something.”  
He quickly dug around in his pockets for a note pad and started taking notes.  
“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you right now. As soon as I have something more, I’ll let you know.”  
Sally got to her feet and made her way towards the door, readying herself to leave.  
“Donovan, just answer me this,” he said quietly. “These people… you know who they are… do you think they would have… Do you think they’re still alive?”  
Sally came to a sudden stop, her entire body stiffened. The seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence before Ward took pity on them and answered for her. “We don’t know.” Sally’s head dropped slightly. “Go home Inspector. We’ll contact you tomorrow.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
His hands felt cold, his fingers tingled as the metal handcuffs dug deeper into his wrists. He tried to move them but was alarmed when he couldn’t feel anything. Trying not to panic, he slowly lifted his head letting it drop backwards, his face towards the ceiling. From there he could see the mangled mess his wrists had become. The skin was riddled with cuts and gashes, no doubt from his time swinging and thrashing around on the chain. The metal cuffs looked like it had gouged its way into his flesh, restricting the blood flow to his hands. He tried to move his fingers once more, looking past the bloody mess and watching for movement. Several fingers on his left hand wriggled, but he could see little movement from his right. He swallowed deeply and looked back down, wishing that he hadn’t bothered. What good was it going to do him anyway? It’s not like he could do anything about it.  
“What is it?” John asked softly through the window.  
“Doesn’t matter,” he eventually mumbled back in reply, trying to ignore the pain pulling at his arms.  
The stress on his shoulder joints was becoming harder and harder to ignore, as gravity slowly tried to force him down. In a desperate attempt to relieve some of the pressure, he instinctively tried to pull himself up. He realised his mistake almost instantly, as the skin around his wrists tore and he felt himself drop again. Though it had only been a fall of one or two centimetres, the shock of the jolt, took his breath away. His head started to spin and his vision blurred. He could hear John’s voice, but couldn’t understand it, his friend sounded so far away.  
Happy to escape the horrors for a while, he allowed the darkness to take him, his vision slowly fading to black.


	19. Falling Apart

***- Lestrade -***  
The rattle of chains was his first indication that something might be wrong, the loud grunt was the second.  
“Sherlock?”  
He and John had tried to engage the detective in a number of conversations and although he never said much, the man would always respond when he was called; which was why it was so worrying, when this time, he didn’t. Peering through the bars, he could see the detective’s body swinging ever so slightly, his face contorted in agony. Without warning, Sherlock’s eyes slowly rolled back into his head and his body fell limp, head slumping forward.  
“Sherlock!”  
Greg felt his heart skip a beat. “What happened?” He asked in a panic, jumping up to get a etter view. John was clutching the window bars with both hands, trying once again to rip through to the other room. It took several seconds before he saw the slight rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and he was satisfied that the detective was in fact still breathing and had just passed out. The relief was overwealming and he felt the tears threatning to escape. He leaned heavily into the doorway and held his head in his hands, trying to regain control of his heart rate. 

Raising his head, he could see John slumped against the wall, his back facing towards him. The doctor’s face was turned and his head drooped forward. Lestrade noticed for the first time, just how pale the man looked.  
“John? Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly.  
When the doctor did not respond, he felt his heart rate increase again. “John?”  
“Fine,” John mumbled quietly, without moving.  
“Yeah right. You wanna try that again? Make it sound a little more convincing?”  
The doctor sighed, breathing heavily.  
Greg walked over to stand just in front of him. Bending down, he could see a thin layer of sweat covering his pale face. His right hand was splayed out against the wall, as if trying to hold himself upright. His eyes were closed, teeth clenched in pain and he could clearly see new patches of blood on his bandages.

“John, look at me,” he said softly, placing a comforting hand on the man’s good shoulder. John took a couple of deep breathes before opening his eyes and attempting to raise his head slowly. Almost instantly, he started to fall sideways and Greg had to take a quickly step forward to catch him.  
“John, you can’t keep doing this, you need to rest.”  
“I’ll be fine.”  
“Oh yeah? And what about you’re shoulder, when were you planning to tell me about that?”  
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to and that we’d be out by now,” the man replied through gritted teeth.  
He knew John didn’t mean anything by it, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible for that. His friend was right, they should have been out by now.  
“John, you need to rest,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “Go lie down for a while.”  
“I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”  
“No, your not fine!” he was getting frustrated. “You can’t even stand up straight! Listen, when I finally get this thing finished, we’ll need to be ready to go. I can’t do this by myself John and I cant carry both of you out of here. You need to rest, or you are going to be no help to anyone.” John looked at him with sad eyes but said nothing in response. “You know I’m right… now go lie down, I’ll wake you if anything happens.”  
John closed his eyes in defeat and slowly nodded, allowing Greg to help him over to the mattress. 

Once he had the doctor settled, he placed his good hand over John’s forehead for a brief second before his friend flicked it away.  
“I’m fine Greg, go.”  
He pulled his hand away slowly, trying not to think about how hot his friend’s skin had felt. He knew that he should have another look at John’s shoulder, but time was of the essence. With any luck he would have the tool ready to go again within the hour. As soon as that was done, they could get started on making their escape. If things went according to plan, John could get his arm treated at the hospital in only a few hours.  
As Greg made his way back over to his spot by the side door, he took a moment to glance back through the bars at the unconsious detective. The steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest gave him little comfort, as he reluctantly went back to work, trying to ignore the two sets of laboured breathing and trying to forget just how horrible his two friends both looked.

It wasn’t until after the night guard had been past again, that Sherlock finally started to stir. The detective’s breathing grew faster and more irregular as the minutes ticked by. He was still working on the final touches of the new and improved tool, when he heard a weak groan come from the man, followed by the slight clink of chains.  
“Sherlock?” he called softly, trying not to wake John.  
The detective let out a series of small grunts, his eyebrows furrowing in pain, before his eyes shot open. Greg could see almost instantly that something wasn’t right. Sherlock was pulling against his restraints, as his eyes scanned the room in distress.  
“Sherlock.” He tried to get his friend’s attention but it didn’t seem to be working. Sherlock’s breathing continued to grow faster and soon he was thrashing around on the chain, almost as much as when he had first fallen.  
“Sherlock, just calm down,” he called again, and this time his friend turned to look in his direction.  
“L’strade?”  
Greg had never seen Sherlock look so frightened before. The confusion and pain was evident in his voice, but he could see the terror clearly in the man’s eyes, as they swung up to look at the bloody handcuffs and then down again, to the empty space below.  
“Yeah it’s me, just try to relax. The more you move, the worse it will be.”  
The detective’s breathing continued to come fast and shallow, however he slowly forced himself to calm down and the squirming gradually came to a halt, blood once again running down the side of the man’s arms.  
“Wha’ hap’ned?” Sherlock eventually ground out. “Where are we?”  
“You don’t remember?” Sherlock managed only a slight shake of the head in reply. “We were kidnapped… You fell off the bricks, you passed out.”  
Sherlock looked back down at the bricks scattered beneath him but didn’t say anything.  
“I don’t know where we are and neither do you apparently… or at least that’s what you’ve told us.”  
Sherlock’s eyes slowly closed, his face in a silent grimace. “Where’s John?”  
Greg turned to glance over towards the doctor, having temporarily forgotten him. Even from this distance he could see the sweat pooling on the man’s face, as he watched a slight tremor run through his body.  
“He’s sleeping. He passed out not long after you did.”  
“Why?”  
“He’s trying to hide it, but I don’t think he’s doing real well.”  
“What’s ‘matter?”  
“It’s his shoulder, we think it’s infected. Not to mention, it would still bloody hurt,” he said solemnly.  
“Shoulder?” Sherlock asked blankly.  
“You don’t remember?” Sherlock didn’t answer, and this made him even more concerned. Surely he couldn’t have forgotten everything… this was bad. “They took all three of us into a little room… They were interrogating us… You don’t remember that?”  
The room was silent for the longest of times, before Sherlock finally looked up at him, with familiarity on his face.  
“Shoulder… d..drill.”  
“That’s right,” he replied with a sigh, not realising just how relieved he was to hear it.  
“Bag… on h’s head.”  
“Yeah, that too.”  
“Though’ he ‘as dead… he stop’ed breath’n”  
“We thought you had for a minute there too when you passed out, gave us quite a scare.”  
“Mmmm… sorry.”  
“So, you remember now?”  
“Mmmm… unfortun’ly,” Sherlock groaned out, closing his eyes once more and trying to breathe through the pain.

He went back to work, scraping away at the toothbrush and trying not to dwell on the two sets of moans coming from either side of him. After a further 10 or 15 minutes of, he finally felt confident that the tool was once again ready to be tested, he just wasn’t sure whether he should tell anyone. What if it didn’t work again?  
He got to his feet and walked up to the window, having decided for the meantime, to keep the news to himself. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed and with any luck, the man wouldn’t notice.  
He placed the tip of the tool in the head of one of the remaining screw and took a deep breath. He threw all his strength into the task but nothing happened.  
He readjusted his grip to use as much of his right hand as possible, trying to ignore the agony coming from his fingers. But after a few minutes filled with grunting and the occasional profanity, he decided to give up on that particular screw and try another. As he repositioned the tool, he noticed Sherlock quietly watching him. He stopped dead in his tracks, like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.  
“I’m just… testing it out,” he said lamely, not knowing what else to say.  
“Why don’t you wake John?” Sherlock asked thickly.  
“I don’t want to wake him unless I have to, he needs the rest.”  
Sherlock didn’t say anything but continued to watch as he struggled with the three remaining screws, taking the tool out every few minutes to check for damage. After a couple of minutes, Greg eventually admitted defeat. He had managed only minimal movement on the last of the three screws, but he just didn’t have enough strength to get it going. With some reluctance, he made his way over to John and gently woke him, passing him the completed tool. After several long and tense minutes, John finally got some movement in the same screw Greg had. It was slow at first, the screw stiff and hard to turn, but eventually, after an almost marathon effort, the piece of metal was finally worked free from the wall. Greg looked up at the doctor, huge smiles on both of their faces. Finally! They were back in business. One down and only two to go… and then another fourteen… but still, they were back on track!

Unfortunately, their luck stopped after that, the remaining screws just would not move, and the plastic had once again started to fail. He took the tool back and resumed his position on the floor. Things were starting to get desperate. They were running out of time and Sherlock…  
He honestly didn’t think they would be able to do it anymore, get him out… at least not tonight. By the looks of it, Sherlock had reached the same conclusion. He had never seen the man look so depressed before, so lost. It worried him.  
What would happen to Sherlock after another day of interrogation? He was already looking like death warmed up, what would another day do to him?  
With a new sense of urgency, he got back to work. Who knows, John might have loosened them…

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He was angry at himself for getting his hopes up. He knew the idea was improbable right from the start and yet as the screws continued to be removed, he had let himself grow more and more used to the idea. Of course, it wasn’t going to work, and he can’t believe he allowed himself even for a second, to think that it would. Even now, Lestrade was trying to rectify the problem, unaware that he more he altered the plastic, the weaker it would become. He thought about telling him, but decided against it. Why bother shattering their dreams? At least now they were fighting for something, keeping themselves occupied. It was better than just hanging around and waiting to die, like he was... literally…

He looked over towards the mattress and thought about the small item he had hidden within it, only hours before. He could picture clearly in his mind when he had slipped it into his trouser pocket, hoping like hell it wouldn’t fall out or that it wouldn’t be discovered. He could also picture clearly in his head exactly what he could do with it… if only…  
He pushed the thought aside, his wrists aching even more. What difference does it make? He can’t get to it. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to get to it. So near, and yet, so far. It was time to be realistic, enough of this false hope crap. He had to start preparing himself, figure out what the next step would be…

“Jo’n?”  
“Yeah?” the doctor answered, slumped against the window.  
“Sutton,” he ground out slowly, causing John to look up in confusion.  
“Sorry, what?”  
“Sutton… You got to let ’em know.”  
“Sutton?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m sorry Sherlock, I don’t understand.”  
“Not when they come get me, but aft’r.”  
“No, don’t even think about that, we’re getting you out of here, long before that happens.” This was going to be difficult, John wouldn’t want to hear it.  
“Jo’n, lis’en”  
“There are only two more screws to go, it won’t take long, trust me.”  
“John!” It took a great deal of his remaining strength, but John finally stopped.  
He had to get this out, he had to let him know. “After… when they bring me back… you have to tell them… tell them Sutton.”  
“What about Sutton?” John asked, suddenly curious.  
“To stay ‘way.”  
John looked confused, but didn’t comment on the cryptic message, choosing instead to shake his head.  
“Forget it, I’m not telling them anything. Not if it means they up their game again. I don’t want to be the one responsible for you winding up dead. Besides this conversation is a waste of time, Greg and I are going to get us out of here.”  
“You have too,” he sighed exhaustedly. Talking was becoming more of an effort. “It’s part of the plan.”  
“What is? What plan?”  
“They need to know… If you don’t do it…. I’ll have too… It’ll be worse… please.”  
“Look, don’t even think about it right now, Sherlock, we still have plenty of time to get out of here, you just need to…”  
“John! Please! Promise you’ll tell ‘em.” He was nearing the end of his energy reserve, but still John refused to listen. The two stared at each other for a long time, neither saying a word, both trying to convince the other to see reason.  
“We promise,” Lestrade called quietly from the ground. He hadn’t even noticed that the scrapping had stopped. “I promise Sherlock.”  
John’s face dropped but he remained quiet, Lestrade was looking at him with sad eyes. He too must have realised the futility of what they were doing. Only crazy people do the same thing over and over again and expect a different result, which begs the question: how long can one be held captive before they start going crazy? He felt like he was there already. One step closer to insanity. One step closer to letting it all out, telling them everything…  
“Thank you.”  
He slowly turned to look at the mattress once more and tried not to think about what the others had in store for him. He didn’t think it would be much longer, until they got what they want. Before he broke and told them everything… He couldn’t let that happen, no matter what.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He didn’t know how long he had been hanging… all he did know, was that he was in a constant state of pain. His shredded back paled in comparison to his wrists and shoulders. The blood had stopped flowing, but the throbbing continued; as did the pull at his arms and he ache in his head. He had felt himself come close to sleep on a number of occasions but with little success. Some part of his body would always demand attention and drag him from its reaches.

It was just him and Lestrade now, John had gone back to sleep. Or more accurately, Lestrade had made him go to sleep. Not that it was hard. Even now, he could hear his friend’s pained and laboured breathing from the other room, growing steadily worse as time went by. He could tell that the Inspector was worried about him, about both of them. Every few minutes the scrapping sound would stop and Lestrade would look in on him and then over to John. It wasn’t particularly helpful in anyway, but it was nice to know that he cared. 

Despite the Inspector’s best efforts, the tool was just not working. Lestrade had spent hours trying to fix it up, only to have it break for a third time (or was it the forth? or fifth?)  
He could tell that Lestrade had also come to the conclusion that their plan would not work. He could see it in the Inspector’s body language; hear it in his frustrated voice. The plastic was just not strong enough to do what they wanted it to. Lestrade knew this but didn’t say anything. Often he would hear a frustrated cry or a defeated moan. Once he had even heard the tool, crash against the far wall. Every time it sounded like Lestrade wanted to give up, he would look over at John or at him, and then silently get back to work. He didn’t want to let them down, didn’t want to have to break the news. He sighed, “take a break L’strade.”  
The Inspector looked up at him in surprise.  
“It’s fine…” he said after a short pause. “I’ve almost got it.”  
“No… y’don’t.”  
Lestrade sighed in defeat, his head dropping sadly. “I’m sorry.”  
“Not your fault,” he replied weakly, shaking his head from side to side before wincing in pain. “You did your best,” he grinded out through clenched teeth.  
Lestrade peered through the bars crest fallen, his eyes showed an overwhelming look of guilt and sorrow.  
“We won’t give up Sherlock, we’ll find a way.”  
As much as he wanted to believe the Inspector, he couldn’t. The pull on his arms reminded him every second, just how hopeless his situation was. There would be no escape, no rescue. They were trapped and completely at their captor’s mercy. Worse of all, he knew exactly how it would all play out… Frank and Rusty would continue to inflict more and more pain until he cracked and told them everything. It was inevitable. Nobody can withstand torture for very long, everybody eventually breaks and he would not be the exception. As soon as that happens, they’ll kill John and Lestrade. They might make it quick, they might not… either way, they’ll make sure he’s there to watch… and then after that, they’ll kill him. The best he could hope for, is that they don’t drag it out, and that he would have given the Home Office enough time to find their man. That would be the greatest tragedy... if he gave his life for nothing.

“You sho’d go t’sleep,” he muttered quietly, glancing back at the Inspector. Lestrade shook his head.  
“I’m fine, besides I wanted to keep you company,” Sherlock sighed.  
“You’re yawning… I’m not goin’ ‘nywhere... I’ll be fine.”  
“And so will I,” he replied calmly.  
“They’ll be here soon ‘nyway.”  
“Not going to work. Besides, what do you think John will do to me, if he finds out that I fell asleep, while I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you? You should know, it’s not worth it.”  
Sherlock said no more, having neither the energy nor the will power to really care anymore.  
“So, Sutton hey? Care to tell me what that’s all about?” Lestrade asked, tossing the tool off to one side.  
“Best you don’t know.”  
“Yet you want those sicko’s out there to know?”  
“They need to... It’s impor’nt.”  
“But why?”  
He didn’t reply, choosing to close his eyes instead. He didn’t have the energy to explain.  
“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked worryingly.  
“Just… trust me… midday… not before…” He swallowed sharply, “need to… set it up first.”  
The Inspector continued to look through the bars at him but did not say another word on the subject. If had more questions, he didn’t ask them. His face was a mixture of concern and curiosity, as he no doubt tried to piece together the information. It was no use of course; he had been cryptic for a reason. It was best if they didn’t know all the details just yet. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
He had so many questions but he knew it would only be a waste of time. This was still one secret that Sherlock was holding close to his chest. He had to keep reminding himself, that everything the man had done up until this point was to help. He had to trust him and go along with it, even though the idea made him physically ill. Each time he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s torn back, he was reminded of John’s words.  
_“Oh my god… They escalated… We gave them information and they escalated. Oh my god Sherlock, your back.”_  
Sherlock had left them yesterday afternoon in relatively good shape, but looking at him now… What would happen to him the next time they divulged information? What was Sherlock going to look like then? Was it really worth it? He couldn’t help but remember Sherlock’s reply, the one that had him in tears.  
_“I’d rather this than the alternative.”_  
He didn’t know if he could do it again, stand by and watch Sherlock take the hit. He didn’t know if he would be able to live with the guilt. He knew that John felt the same way. Neither of them wanted to be responsible for Sherlock’s pain. The fact that their unknown betrayal had granted a possible escape plan, had at first made him feel slightly better about the whole situation. At least Sherlock’s sacrifice had not been for nothing, but now… He was certain that there would be no escape tonight. Dawn was growing closer and they had run out of time. He felt shattered, hopeless and more importantly, responsible; as if their failure was somehow his own.  
He leaned back against the bars with a deep sigh and continued to keep an eye on his two friends. They both looked and sounded absolutely terrible and yet he found himself wishing that the night would never end; for as bad as it was for them now, it would only get worse...

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
A persistent buzzing sound slowly roused him from his sleep. Blurry eyed and somewhat confused, it took a moment for him to realise that the sound was coming from his phone.  
“Dimmock here” he said casually, trying not to sound as though he had just woken up.  
“Sir, we’ve received a couple of calls from John Watson’s sister. She wants an update on how the case is going. Apparently Donovan has been keeping her updated but we can’t get in contact with her.”  
“Yeah you won’t be able to; she’s working a case with the Home Office.”  
“Oh, well that solves that mystery. What would you like me to do? She’s getting very agitated.”  
Peter reached for his watch, surprised to see 8:16 glowing on the small screen. He must have slept through his alarm.  
“Give me her address, I’ll call past and see her on my way in.”  
He stumbled to his feet and fumbled around for a pen, before writing the address on a small notepad. He enquired about the case but after being told that they had not made any further progress, Peter ended the call. Already he could feel a headache coming on. Despite the eight hours of sleep, he felt as though he had barely closed his eyes, the result of a restless night. As he made his way towards the bathroom, he was already starting to dread the conversation with Ms Watson. He just wished he had something positive to tell her. What was he going to say? _‘I’m sorry Ms Watson but we still have no idea where your brother is or who took him; and no, we don’t know if he’s still alive.’_  
He inwardly cursed Donovan for leaving him in this position. What on Earth had those three managed to get themselves into? Agent Ward had said they were dangerous men, Donovan said they were taken for information… Just what condition were they likely to be in when they do find them? The thought was too much to bear and he pushed it aside. He wouldn’t think about that now, he had work to do. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He had given up struggling a long time ago, had even given up talking. Both required energy, energy he didn’t have. He hung in silence, trying not to dwell on the future that lay before him. Trying to ignore the growing sense of terror but failing miserably. What a ridiculous notion – terror. Such a childish reaction and well below him and yet, he couldn’t help it. He knew the emotion was impractical and in no way helpfu,l and yet the closer it got to morning, the more trouble he had trying to contain it. Whenever he felt the panic start to rise, Lestrade would break the silence. He must have sensed it in his body language, heard it in his breathing. Either way, it was in these moments that Sherlock treasured the man’s company above all else. Lestrade wouldn’t talk about anything in particular, usually something pointless like football or cars; anything to help pass the time. As dull as those conversations were, he couldn’t begin to express how grateful he was for the distraction and how much easier it was to cope.

When he did eventually hear the three sets of footsteps, he was surprised to find himself feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. As much as he dreaded the day ahead, he also knew that any minute now, the pull on his arms would finally cease and his torment would be over, no matter how temporary.  
Frank was the first to pop into sight, a wide smile beamed across his face.  
“Well look at you, hanging ‘round like a bad smell” he said with a laugh.  
The night guard came next, closely followed by Rusty, who moved past Frank to unlock the cell door.  
“Looks like Humpty Dumpty fell from his wall,” Rusty said bluntly, causing both Frank and the night guard to burst out laughing.  
“You have a good night?” Frank said smugly, as he walked straight up to him and started slapping at his cheeks. He considered spitting in the man’s face but decided against it. Although it would give him a great sense of satisfaction, he also knew that in the long run, it wouldn’t worth it.  
He could hear the sound of bricks being slid out from underneath him and the ladder being set up.  
_Not long now_ he thought tiredly, his heart racing with anticipation.  
It wasn’t long before he heard the rattle of chain and a second later, he felt himself fall. The plan was to land firmly on his feet, find his composure and then stare the three men down. The ground was, after all, only a few centimetres away. The reality however, was not as graceful, and his legs collapsed beneath him.  
He fell in a heap on the ground, his arms dropping on top of him like dead weight. Pain instantly shot through his arms and hands as pressure was taken off his wrists. He slowly rolled to his side and brought his cuffed hands up to meet his eyes. He could tell instantly, that the damage wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. The metal cuffs had dislodged themselves from the skin and had fallen further down his arm, allowing him to see the deep gashes they had created. Fortunately, they were mainly isolated to the widest part of the wrist, the section just below the thumb and little finger; the majority of the flesh wasn’t too bad. He held his breath, as he once again tried to move his fingers, sighing in relief as they all responded, some better than others. 

He was just starting to feel pins and needles in the digits, when two sets of arms grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him to his unsteady feet. His balance wavered but he managed to stay upright, as his left hand was released from the handcuffs. He was preparing himself for the walk to the interrogation room, when his arms were unexpectedly forced behind his back and re-cuffed. It was only then that he stared listening to what the three men were saying…  
“Get the chain ready.”


	20. Cracks Forming

***- Lestrade -***  
When they finally released the chain, Sherlock came crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes, his body collapsing underneath him. The detective groaned loudly, pulling himself into the foetal position.  
“I’m sick of this crap,” Rusty growled, staring down at his prisoner. “You’re going to start talking to us… right… now!” He continued, threateningly.  
The room went silent as all eyes drifted to the moaning man, rocking ever so slightly against the concrete floor. Sherlock did not speak.  
“Let’s start with something simple,” Rusty continued, crouching down to stare into the detective’s face. “Was there someone else in that hotel room?”  
Sherlock said nothing.  
“Well? Shit for brains?” Frank chimed in mockingly.  
Sherlock sighed deeply but still did not answer, his eyes staring intently at the inside of his hands. A moment passed in silence before Rusty’s patience ran out.  
“Right, get him up!” the older man ordered, angrily.  
Frank and the night guard grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, hoisting him up onto his shaky feet. The atmosphere in the room had almost instantly changed. There was no longer any sense of amusement, only frustration and anger, as Rusty released the detective’s left hand from the metal restraints. If it wasn’t for the two men holding him, he had no doubt that his friend would have fallen.  
“We’ll try this again,” Rusty said, as he pulled Sherlock’s tormented arms behind his back, securing them once again in the metal handcuffs. “Get the chain ready.”

He quickly shot John a questioning look but the doctor’s attention was still on their friend. The night guard left Sherlock’s side and picked up the heavy chain from the floor. After climbing the ladder, he threaded it through the large hook in the ceiling, so that it could be moved backwards and forwards and not just remain in a steady state as it had been before. As Rusty connected the other end of the chain back around the handcuffs, he saw the look of alarm on Sherlock’s face as he suddenly lunged forward, trying to escape.  
“Ah ah ah,” Frank said gripping the detective tightly, pulling him backwards. “You’re not getting away that easily”.  
Sherlock glanced over to where he and John were standing, an anguished look on his face. His eyes pleaded for their help but there was nothing they could do. Their friend turned away a second later, but Greg could still feel the ache in his chest. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that this is what it must have felt like for Sherlock back in ‘that’ room. The thought made him feel even more terrible, just another thing he had to endure. When was this all going to end?

With the other end of the chain tightly secured around the handcuffs, Rusty motioned to the night guard to pull it tight. Sherlock’s body slowly bent forward as his hands were pulled up behind his back.  
“All right, that’s enough,” Rusty muttered just as Sherlock started to grunt in discomfort. “Frank, go give him a hand.”  
Frank released his hold of Sherlock’s shoulder and the detective wobbled unsteadily. Rusty moved around to meet him, his hand lifting Sherlock’s weak chin to stare directly into his eyes.  
“Was there… another person… in the hotel room that night?”  
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes narrowed defiantly.  
“Have it your way”, Rusty muttered, dropping Sherlock’s head and motioning towards the others. A second later, both the night guard and Frank pulled tightly on the other end of the chain, causing Sherlock’s arms to pull tight. It was bad enough, seeing Sherlock hang from the ceiling with his arms in front of him but this… this was like something out of the Middle Ages. Sherlock’s face screwed up in pain, but still he did not answer, choosing instead to breathe through the ache.  
“Was there another person, yes or no?”  
Still no answer, and with a nod the two men pulled harder, forcing Sherlock up onto his toes. The detective grunted loudly but remained silent.  
“Well?”  
Again nothing. This time when they pulled, Sherlock’s feet left the ground, causing the man to elicit a deep growl.  
“We can do this all day,” Rusty continued, signalling again for the chain to be tightened.  
“Just one little word.”  
“Stop it!” John yelled from beside him. “We’ve already told you that there was! Just leave him alone!” This earned Sherlock another sharp pull at the chain.  
Rusty looked over at them with a scowl. “That’s enough out of you. Of course, we know the answer... I just want to hear him say it.”  
Rusty walked over to join the other two and together, the three of them heaved at the chain, causing Sherlock to jump up rather suddenly. The detective managed to muffle a cry, his breaths coming loud and sharp as he closed his eyes against the painful pull.  
“Come on Holmes, yes or no?” The man asked, releasing the chain just a fraction, causing Sherlock to suddenly drop and bounce a number of times. This time, the detective did cry out, which only caused them to do it again for a second time.  
“Yes or no?”  
“Leave him alone!” John cried again as Sherlock screamed through clenched teeth.

He didn’t know what to do, didn’t even know where to look. His heart was racing, his mind slow with shock. He wanted to call out, but what good would it do? He wanted to tell the three men to go fuck themselves, but that too would just be a waste of time. He wanted so many things right now but most of all, he just wanted it to stop. Sherlock’s cries and whimpering were getting louder and were now almost constant. The man’s chest was heaving so much that, he was sure the detective would pass out.  
“Come on Holmes, was there another person there or not? Yes or no?”  
“Yes there was!” John cried  
“Yes or no?” Rusty continued, ignoring him.  
Sherlock tried to take a breath.  
“Yes or no?”  
“Y…yes,” Sherlock gasped.  
“I’m sorry?” Rusty asked, moving back into Sherlock’s eye sight. The detective swallowed, still breathing hard and fast.  
“Yes.”  
“Yes what?” Rusty asked dangerously, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and twisting his head up to face him.  
“Yes, there was… someone else there.” Sherlock choked out.  
“Good.” Rusty smiled widely. “Glad to see you finally cooperating, looks like we’re off to a good start.”  
With a flick of his finger, Sherlock came tumbling down, hitting the ground like a ton of bricks. His face hit the floor with a smack and when they dragged him back to his feet, he had a fresh trail of blood running from his nose - If it hadn’t been broken before, it definitely was now.  
With little else to be said or done, the three men proceeded to drag Sherlock from the room and he found himself able to do little but look on in shock, as the detective disappeared back down the hall. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
As the sound of footsteps slowly faded into the distance, the room fell into complete silence.  
He didn’t quite understand how it had happened. When Greg had forced him onto the mattress and told him to sleep, it had been the middle of the night. They had only two more screws left to remove from their barred window and Greg had promised to wake him when the repairs were finished - a task which he assured him, would only take around an hour. Lestrade had promised to keep his eye on Sherlock too, and to wake him if anything happened... it was the only reason he agreed to the lie down in the first place…  
How the hell did they get back to this point? Being forced to watch as they tortured and tormented his friend yet again?  
He couldn’t think straight, too many emotions fighting for control; anger, repulsion, sadness, panic, confusion...  
“What happened?” he asked suddenly. He turned to stare at Lestrade, who looked shell shocked. “There was only two to go, what happened?”  
“It wouldn’t work.” Greg answered thickly after a long pause, his eyes starring unfocused at the now empty cell next door.  
“But we were supposed to get him out,” he said quietly. He could feel the panic push forward. “We told him we would get him out Greg, we promised.”  
“I know,” Lestrade replied in a small voice, his eyes never leaving the empty room.  
“Why didn’t you wake me? You said you would wake me!” He said angrily, Lestrade didn’t respond. “They took him. We said that we weren’t going to let that happen again!” He grabbed hold of Lestrade’s bad arm, ignoring the hiss of pain and turned the Inspector until they were facing one another. “They have him Greg,” he finished pathetically.  
“I know, I’m sorry.”  
The two stared at each other for an eternity. He could feel the despair threatening to drown him.  
“What are we going to do?”  
Greg looked at him sadly, before retrieving the toothbrush from the floor. Within seconds the sound of scraping had started again and he was left with nothing to do but worry.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
He hated this – talking to the family. Even before he was a detective he hated it. He had lost count of the number of times he had delivered bad news. The number of times he had knocked on some poor sod’s front door to tell them that their loved one was gone or was in the hospital. It never got any easier and he never really knew what to say. “I’m sorry,” just seemed so... forced, so... rehearsed... and yet as he sat there opposite Harriet Watson, looking into her tear stained face, he couldn’t think of any other words to say.  
He hadn’t been involved in many cases like this – kidnappings. They were usually handled by a different division, one more practiced and experienced in these kinds of scenarios. Not to say that missing people weren’t also working the case, hell, half of Scotland Yard were; it’s just that he had no idea what to do in this situation.  
“Please, can you at least tell me if he’s still alive?” Harriet Watson asked quietly, choking back barely contained tears.  
Peter found himself unsure of how to proceed. What was the best thing to do in this situation? Put a positive twist on the information to keep her hopes up; or try to prepare her for the worst? It was well over the 48-hour mark and there still was no sign of them. No contact with the abductors, no ransom demands, nothing.  
“We have found no evidence suggesting that he has been killed, however with no contact from the kidnappers...”  
A quiet sob escaped from Ms Watson’s mouth, before she buried her head into her hands once more. He eventually left her and her friend in the hands of the family liaison officer, promising to call, when he had a solid lead. He left her apartment feeling even more miserable than when he had when he arrived. They had to find them. He did not want to have to do that again, ever.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
“You can’t! We have to get out of here. We have to get Sherlock!”  
“John, I’ve been working on this all night,” he said wearily. “I just need a few hours.”  
He’d been working on the tool, ever since they had taken Sherlock away, and while he knew it was a waste of time, he did it anyway, for John’s sake. It had come to the point, however, that he had to admit to himself that he needed to stop. He never realised it before, but the constant scraping sound was starting to grate on his nerves and he felt as though he was starting to lose it. He couldn’t go on, not like this, not without rest. The broken fingers on his hand ached so much, he wanted to cry. The stab wound to his arm had started to throb hours ago and the pain was growing every minute. His eyes felt heavy and gritty, his head thumped...  
“We might not have a few hours,” John replied anxiously “God knows what they’re doing to him in there. We have to get him out of here or he’s going to die. We’re all going to die.”  
“How about you give it a go then?” Greg suggested, offering him the small tool. John seemed hesitant but he was quick to reassure him. “Trust me, you’ll do fine and you’ll be doing me a favour... I just need a few hours… besides; it will give you something to do.  
John finally accepted the useless piece of plastic with an approving nod and Greg was finally free of the burden. He made his way over to the thin mattress and dropped into it heavily. His whole body tingled and his head swam as he sank further down into material. Within a few seconds, the scraping sound had started again but he could barely hear it. Within minutes he was fast asleep.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
When Sally arrived at the Home Office that morning, the place was buzzing with activity. It was a welcome change to the miserable, blank faces that she had become accustomed to at Scotland Yard lately.  
Walking around, it didn’t take her long to discover that they had found a new lead, and more importantly, that it was thanks to her.  
It had been early yesterday evening when she had remembered about the coded message left by Alex Walters (a.k.a. Tony Roberts). She had reported the information immediately to another agent who had apparently visited Sergeant Collins at the hospital to take another statement.  
Up on one of the whiteboards in the main meeting room, was a series of numbers and letters which had been scrawled in various hands.  
TL Esc ______________ head ___________  
...............??? 2 HO...................???.......

T.L. Escaped Head Office? Heading ??? 

A lot of it was guesswork and speculation, but it was the section underneath that really stood out.  
‘SUL’, ‘SOL’, ‘SUT’ and ‘SOT’ had been written and underlined in the space beneath the half decoded message. Below each of the headings, a list of names and places had been roughly scrawled. A map accompanied the different lists, each place marked out with a different coloured highlighter.  
She took one step closer to have a look, when Agent Ward walked in to greet her.  
“What’s all this?” she asked him confused.  
“Possible leads on the whereabouts of our informant. We have been able to decipher what Sergeant Collins remembers of the coded message. We’re fairly confident that Walters was trying to inform us that the informant had escaped and let us know where he was headed. The only problem is that Sergeant Collins cannot remember the exact details of that portion of the message.”  
“That’s what this is?” she asked uncertainly, pointing towards the various lists.  
“Yes, four possible variables to the last word, and places that may correspond with those letters. We have agents looking into them. The problem is, that if your D.I. had the note on him at the time he was abducted, that means that the kidnappers now have that piece of information too. They are one step ahead of us. We need to find him before they do.”  
“How are we going to do that?”  
“We are tracking several members of the organisation and so far, there appears to be little movement. There is a slight increase of members currently moving around various locations in central London and Sutton, making us think that ‘SUT’ is the most likely combination of letters, but it’s nothing substantial. It’s a good bet that they are still not 100% sure of his location themselves. We are sending officers out to look for him, in all the locations identified with the letters ‘SUT’ and we will keep monitoring key players and gang movements. We need to be ready to move if they do.”  
“Well that’s all very well and good, but how is this going to help find our officers?” Agent Ward looked at her with a strange expression before shaking his head slightly, turning his gaze back to the highlighted map.  
“I’m sorry, it’s not.” Sally waited for him to continue, offer some suggestions or advice but he remained silent, combing through the list of locations on the whiteboard. After a minute, she gave up and sighed angrily.  
“I’m calling Dimmock,” she said, fishing out her phone.  
“Why?” Agent Ward called suddenly.  
“To see if he found out anything on our shooter!” she snapped angrily. “Some of us still care what happens to them!”  
“Listen, we’ve been over this,” Agent Ward said with a sigh.  
“I know that!” She snarled at him angrily. “But it doesn’t make it any easier and you know what? You don’t have to dismiss the whole thing quite so easily either! There is no reason why we can’t work both cases, or at the very least try!” Agent Ward had the decency to look ashamed.  
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  
Satisfied that she had made her point, Sally dialled Dimmock’s number and waited patiently for him to answer. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
All things considered, he thought he had done well to hold in the screams, to hold back the tears and cries of mercy. Despite their best efforts, he had managed to stay composed and in control throughout his time in captivity. That was however, up until that morning when he let the cries spill out, along with his words.  
He had tried to convince himself that it was all part of the plan, that it didn’t matter – they already knew the answer anyway…  
Truth be told, he just wanted it to stop. They had finally got to him, made him cave. They may have won that battle, but they were still fighting the war, and Sherlock was nothing if not stubborn.  
His list of injuries was steadily increasing. Though none were too serious, the combination and the frequency of the injuries put together, were starting to take their toll. His left shoulder throbbed, no doubt dislocated from his struggle against further restraint. In the end, he wished he hadn’t bothered. They were always going to win, and now he just had another problem to add to his list. That along with electrical burns and his legs... He couldn’t look at his legs anymore, not without feeling sick. The constant pain radiating from them was intense and he didn’t want to think about what the long-term damage might be...

“Look at me!” Frank screamed at him, sticking the taser into his bare stomach. He grunted loudly as he felt the electricity shoot through his body, temporarily paralysing him. A few seconds later the fire disappeared and he was left trying to catch his breath.  
“Where is he? Is he in Sutton? Where abouts?”  
Over the last few days they had deciphered most of the coded message left by the undercover agent. Of course, if you knew the context, it was all too simple to work out. He should know, he managed it in seconds. They had the small piece of paper stuck to a board with the translation underneath it and several maps of Greater London underneath that. It almost resembled one of Lestrade’s ridiculous case boards at Scotland Yard.  
_TL Esc rprt 2ho head SUT_  
T.L Escaped report to Home Office Head SUT (Heading Sutton?)

While they had the main part figured out, they were still unsure of the beginning and end of the message, something that he did not intend on helping them with.  
“Well?” Frank yelled again, getting impatient. He wanted to say something witty, make a sarcastic comment, but he had learnt long ago that it wasn’t worth it, so he kept his mouth shut. He could see Frank’s temper rising. It wouldn’t be long until he snapped and Rusty would take over again.  
As much as Frank hurt and irritated him, it was nothing he couldn’t handle. The man was loud, obnoxious and hard hitting. He liked to see the blood flow, the bruises form but it was all very dull and predictable unlike Rusty. Rusty scared him. He was a true professional in the art of torture. He knew exactly what buttons to push and how hard to push them. He knew how to cause maximum pain with minimal damage and he knew how to get answers. Something he had already proven on more than one occasion.

“Alright then, who’s T.L?” Frank asked, stepping back into his eye line.  
“I don’t know,” he mumbled quietly.  
“And I don’t believe you,” Frank replied, slamming the Taser into his side.  
“You call him Skittles,” he said, once he had recovered. There was no point trying to hide the fact he knew the man’s nickname, he had already spilled that piece of information once before. The marks on his back could attest to that.  
“I know what we call him dickhead. I want to know what you call him!” Frank continued, pushing down on his right knee. He yelled in pain, resisting the urge to look at the offending limb. Don’t look at them.  
“I don’t call him anything, I don’t know him.” He ground out through his clenched teeth, his fists balled tightly behind his back.  
“Don’t play dumb, you know who he is,” Frank said with a twisted smile.  
“What makes you think that?”  
“Because you helped bring him in,” Rusty said, moving into view. Sherlock felt his throat suddenly restrict as he tried to keep his face looking neutral. “We know you’ve met him, we know you helped track him down. If anyone is going to know his name, it’s you.”  
He felt his pulse quicken, his hands felt hot and sweaty. _How did they know that?!_  
“Nothing to say?” Rusty took another few steps forward until they were face to face. He did his best to remain calm, but he felt his head spin. “How about we start with something simpler? Do you know Skittles’ real name? Yes or no?”  
He didn’t reply.  
“We already know the answer,” Frank reminded him smugly.  
“Well, if you’re so sure, then why are you asking?”  
“I want to hear it from you.” Rusty replied dangerously, reminding him of their encounter earlier that morning.  
He didn’t know what to say. Of course, it was true but how could they possibly know that? Was this all an elaborate ruse to get him to implicate himself in ‘Skittles’ apprehension? If he answered yes, would he be confirming a suspicion, or had they in fact tracked that information down somehow? He had been their prisoner for a while now, plenty of time to do some research and ask around... On the other hand, should he just play dumb? Deny all knowledge and connection to the man? Would they believe him? 

His mind raced with all the different scenarios, trying to figure out how best to proceed. His mind was foggy, he couldn’t think straight and he didn’t trust himself not to say something he shouldn’t. In the end, he fell back into the safety of silence. It gave him more time to think, or at least that was the theory. After it became clear that he did not intend to say anything, he could see Rusty’s jaw tighten, his teeth no doubt clenched.  
“Fine, have it your way,” the man said coldly and he felt his chest clench in dread. He watched as Rusty made his way back over towards the cluttered bench and picked up the familiar items. He tried to remain calm as Rusty drew closer, but a brief panicked look gave him away.  
“Not a fan of the dark?” Frank asked mockingly.  
He fixed his eyes on the wall in front of him and tried to control his breathing as Rusty secured the thick blindfold tightly around his eyes.  
“Add another plank,” Rusty said suddenly and he found his breathing even harder to control. 

He heard Frank move away from his side just as Rusty dropped the heavy fabric bag over his head. His world plummeted into complete darkness as the material clung to his face, making it harder to breathe. Out of all the things they had done to him, this was probably the worst. This was what he dreaded the most – this strange form of sensory deprivation, sometimes lasting hours. It hadn’t particularly worried him the first time they had done it, but by the time they had removed the coverings, he was well and truly rattled. Being lost in one’s self with no way out, was one of the worst things imaginable. 

He heard Frank return and for the first time he was thankful for the material covering his eyes. He would not have to watch...  
A second later he felt his legs lift as another plank was forced beneath them. He howled out in pain, his voice echoing throughout the room. A moment later, his cries became muffled as Rusty placed the large headphones over his ears. Within seconds, what was left of his voice was drowned out by the loud static noise filtering through the speakers.


	21. Closing the Web

***- Lestrade -***  
He was woken by the sounds of yelling and banging, causing him to jump and roll to his side, his eyes frantically searching for the source of the commotion.  
“Sorry,” John muttered, looking over towards him, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His friend was looking upset and depressed.  
“You okay?” he muttered quietly, his words thick with sleep. John ran his hand through his hair but didn’t reply, as he paced the room anxiously. “John, what is it?” he asked, sitting up.  
John stopped and stared at him sadly. “It’s not going to work, is it?”  
He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath before answering. “No, I don’t think so.”  
John’s head dropped, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat as he made his way over to sit beside him.  
“We’re not going to get out of here are we?” John asked sadly.  
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “It’s not looking very promising.” 

The two sat together in silence, staring blankly towards the corner where John had thrown the plastic tool. Nothing more than a discarded toothbrush now, it couldn’t help them anymore.  
“How are you feeling? You’re not looking very well.” John asked him suddenly, breaking the long silence. He just laughed.  
“You obviously haven’t been around a mirror lately; you don’t look so flash either.”  
John smiled sadly but reached forward and took hold of his injured arm. The doctor carefully examined his broken fingers, checking their alignment and blood flow, before moving on to the stab wound on his forearm. The area looked red and swollen, but not excessively. John was quick to redress the wound with fresh bandages before settling down again, looking pained and exhausted.  
“It looks pretty good, all things considered.” He told him quietly as he got started trying to remove his own shirt. 

Greg helped him shrug out of the dirty clothing, before carefully removing the tightly bound bandages. The first thing he noticed was the smell, and based on John’s alarmed expression, he was not the only one. John quickly got to his feet and scrubbed his hands under the running water again, before poking and prodding at the drill’s entry point, grunting every few seconds. It wasn’t the front that Greg was worried about however, it was the back. The drill’s exit wound was clearly the main source of the problem. The area was bright red, swollen and oozed a thick yellow discharge. One side of Greg was glad that John couldn’t see the damage, but the other side, wished like hell he could. He _was_ a doctor after all.  
“What does that side look like?” John asked nervously.  
He swallowed hard, “pretty bad.”  
“Shit,” John muttered quietly. “Discharge?”  
“Yeah.”  
“How much and what colour?  
“Yellow and it’s hard to say, its oozing out from the wound.”  
John remained quiet for a moment, and it made him anxious. Was that bad? Of course it was, but... how bad?  
“John?” He asked worryingly.  
“We’re going to have to try to wash it out again.” The doctor replied quietly as he sank down onto the toilet seat looking pale. This was not going to be fun for either of them.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
Jack Redden was a 21 year old man who had been convicted on various counts of robbery and drug possession over the last four years. Peter and his team had been able to track down the young man’s parents, living in a small unit in east Wembley. Theirs was a sad story and yet all too familiar. Jack had been an only child, growing up in a middle-class family. He had fallen into the wrong crowd, left school and developed a drug habit. Despite his parent’s best efforts, Jack became addicted to his destructive lifestyle, turning to crime to fund his drug dependency. He ended up on the streets and then in prison. Eventually they stopped hearing from him and then after a time, they stopped looking.

Despite being obviously distraught over their son’s untimely death, they had no explanation as to why he was at the Skyridge Hotel or why he would want to kill somebody. They did however, provide them with the names of several people who he had been friends with, and were able to point them in the direction of Shephard’s Bush - the last place he was staying before they had lost contact.  
They had then spent the next several hours pounding the pavement, asking around for information on the young man, with little success. Getting desperate, they turned to the local bobbies, who informed them that a lot of homeless youths in the area had ended up in the hospital during the last few days, with injuries ranging from minor beatings to stab wounds. For the first time, Peter felt like he might be on to something and less than 20 minutes later, he was at the local hospital trying to pry information out of victims who were still there. Most said very little, until they came across a patient named Jarrod. 

Jarrod was a 23 year old male, who had arrived at the hospital two days ago after being stabbed twice in the chest. As it so happened, Jarrod was also one of the names given to him by Redden’s parents and it didn’t take long to establish that this young man, had indeed known their killer. Despite starting off very quiet and shielded, Jarrod began to open up, as he listened to Dimmock explain what had happened to his friend.  
“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” the young man muttered, slowly shaking his head. “He said no one would get hurt.”  
“What happened?” Peter asked carefully, pulling his phone out to record the conversation.  
“He came and saw me the other week; said he was in a lot of shit with this guy called Grey, cause he owed him a lot of money. He asked me for a couple a hundred quid but I was broke so I couldn’t. He came back a couple a days later and asked again but I still didn’t have anything to give him. I asked him how much he owed and he told me he needed another 3 grand or they were gonna start breaking his teeth.”  
“Who’s ‘they’?”  
“I dunno, he just said that they weren’t the type of guys you wanna mess with. He was talkin about trying to hold up a service station or maybe asking his folks for a loan. But then next thing I know, he’s coming to meet me, saying that Grey has given him a job that will make them square again. He said that he had to go get a guy from a hotel in London, and not to worry, that no one was gonna get hurt. The next morning it’s all over the papers. Two people dead, the hotel on fire and three coppers missing... I don’t hear anything from Jack, so I figure he’s laying low, but then four guys jump me and start asking me all these questions about him. Next thing I know I’m bleeding all over the pavement and I wake up here. I kinda figured then, that something had probably gone wrong.”  
“The people who Jack was working for, we think they set him up. We also think they were the ones who kidnapped our officers. Now Jack would have known them, maybe visited them. Is there anywhere that he used to go? Maybe for meetings or to buy drugs?”  
“Yeah a couple.”  
As Jarrod rattled off a short list of locations, he felt a new sense of energy wash through him. This was the best lead they had in what felt like days – four possible locations, all within a 30 minute drive of where he was currently standing. As soon as he left the hospital, he had put a call through to the station to get officers out to the four different areas. He then called together the rest of his team and within five minutes, they too were on their way. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
“What is this I hear about Sutton?” Mycroft Holmes blasted down the phone line. “I asked you to keep me informed on the case. If I knew that this was a location of interest, I could have had my people out there searching half an hour ago!”  
For the last several hours, more and more members of the Scarlet Rose had been observed heading into the general area of Sutton, and it was making the whole task force increasingly nervous. Sally had also been feeling the pressure, but for different reasons. If the crime syndicate finally knew the location of their missing man, then Lestrade’s time was running out. A thought, that was no doubt shared by the older Holmes brother, if this conversation was anything to go by.

“I ensured your inclusion on this task force to help me find my brother. If the Scarlet Rose find their informant before we do, then there will be no need to continue the search at all! You have been on this case for over 12 hours now Sergeant, what have you been doing?”  
Sally was a little taken aback. She had done what she could under the circumstances, but the situation she was in, did not make it easy.  
“I’ve informed Scotland Yard of a new line of inquiry, which they are still looking into. There’s not much I can really do from here, other than watch and take notes. The Home Office are starting to strategically focus on Sutton, tracking down any locations which may be familiar to the informant.”  
“So, I hear. Why Sutton, pray I ask?”  
“They have noticed an increasing gang presence in that area.”  
“Of course that might only be because of the increased police presence...” Mycroft muttered quietly. An interesting notion, she must confess.  
“I would appreciate regular updates on how things are progressing from your end. I have already insisted that a cryptologist look into what remains of the coded message and I will dispatch a team to investigate potential areas of interest. I will do what I can, but I cannot help unless I am kept informed!” Mr Holmes finished firmly, sending a cold chill down her spine.  
“I’m sorry sir, but aren’t there other people who have been doing just that?” She asked in a small voice.  
“Oh, don’t worry Ms Donovan, they have already received a similar message. Now I trust I will not have to make this call again.”  
“No sir,” Sally said quietly, all the while wondering when exactly she had started to work for Mycroft Holmes.  
“Good,” he said calmly before the line went dead.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
The sound of Sherlock’s muffled screams echoed down the corridor, causing his stomach to drop and his heart to skip a beat. His eyes stared intently at the main door, his thoughts flicking between relief that the man was alive, and fear of what he would soon see. It only took a minute before Frank and Rusty appeared and for a moment, he didn’t even see the detective. When he did finally notice him, he almost wished he hadn’t. If it weren’t for the pitiful cry emanating from his friend, Greg would have thought him dead. 

Each man was holding one of Sherlock’s arms as they pulled the detective along face down, his legs dragging uselessly behind him. Sherlock grunted and screamed through clenched teeth, his eyes screwed shut in pain as they manoeuvred him into the small room, and proceeded to drop him. Sherlock had just enough presence of mind to flick his right arm out in front of him, saving his head from slamming into the concrete. His left arm however, fell awkwardly beside him, eliciting a further yelp of pain. Once he had landed, the detective did not move.

Greg could not see any fresh injuries on his friend but it was clear that they had done something to him. Sherlock did little more than moan when Rusty rolled him onto his back, and he remained complaisant as the two men moved him around like they would a rag doll. His eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling, as Frank grabbed hold of his left hand and pulled it up to the side, above his head. Sherlock cried out in pain but did little else, his head falling limply to the side. He didn’t appear to notice when Rusty grabbed his right leg, bending it at an angle, so that his foot lay flat on the floor. The detective’s head slowly rolled back to the centre and his eyes closed lightly just as Rusty pulled out a hammer and large nail.  
“What are you doing?” John called out in a panic. Rusty said nothing but glanced up at them with a smile. The older man, centred the nail in the middle of Sherlock’s foot and then brought the hammer up towards his face.  
“Don’t!”  
With a single downwards swipe, the hammer connected with the head of the nail, driving it into Sherlock’s foot. For the first time since this whole nightmare started, he heard Sherlock truly scream. It had taken a second for him to react to the blow, but when the shock had worn off, he emitted a sound unlike anything he had ever heard from the man before. It made his blood run cold.

Sherlock tried to sit up weakly, but was pushed back down almost immediately and a few seconds later, the second blow fell. Sherlock’s free leg jerked pathetically as his weakened body tried to escape the agony.  
“Stop it!” John yelled frantically.  
A third blow struck the nail and the screams grew louder.  
“Stop!” He heard himself echo weakly.  
After the forth blow, the nail had almost disappeared and Rusty got to his feet. Sherlock’s cries grew weaker, his breaths came fast and shallow.  
He felt numb as he watched Rusty kneel back down on Sherlock’s opposite side, pulling out another long nail and moving it towards the man’s open palm. The detective’s hand suddenly closed into a tight fist as his panicked eyes followed the older man’s movements. Frank grabbed at the clenched fist and tried to pry it open with little success. Seconds later, he grabbed hold of Sherlock’s left shoulder and pressed his weight down on top of it.  
The detective cried and withered in pain, until eventually his grip slowly weakened. 

Between the two of them, Frank and Rusty were able to pry open his friend’s hand and position the new nail in the middle of his palm.  
“Don’t do this please!” John cried pathetically.  
“Wait! Stop!” he heard himself call, just as the hammer dropped again. “He told us something!” He finally yelled, which appeared to get the two men’s attention.  
“Really?” Rusty asked with a sneer, pausing to look up at them. “And what exactly did he tell you?”  
He glanced over at John and immediately saw the pained look in his eyes. The look that said: ‘please don’t do this, you know what will happen if you do’.  
He turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was thumping his right fist weakly against the floor. It was then he remembered their conversation:  
_“You want those sicko’s out there to know?”_  
_“They need to... It’s impor’nt.”_  
_“But why?”_  
_“Just… trust me… midday… not before…”_

Decision made, he turned his attention back to Rusty and calmly said “Sutton.”  
“Sutton?” The older man repeated, “what about it?”  
“I… I don’t really know,” he said truthfully, “he didn’t really say. He was half asleep at the time, but whatever it was, it sounded important. He kept muttering about how they can’t go there and they can’t find out.”  
He could see John’s head drop as the two interrogators smiled widely at each other.  
“So, it’s Sutton hey?” Frank asked Sherlock in a sneer. “Is that where he is? Answer me and I won’t do your other limbs.” Sherlock panted roughly, his eyes staring unfocused.  
“Well?” Rusty asked with a growl. Is it yes or NO!” He replied, slamming the hammer down for the second time. Sherlock screamed and immediately started to nod his head frantically.  
“Y..yes,” he gasped weakly, “yes… please...”

The two men looked at each other for a moment, before Frank made a hasty departure. Rusty meanwhile, had raised the hammer and started to bring it down again, but instead of hitting the nail, he turned the hammer upside down and crushed the top of it into the detective’s fingers. He moved the nail in between the two prongs and slowly pried it from the man’s flesh. Sherlock screamed in agony before falling silent, his body going completely limp. Rusty placed his fingers on the detective’s neck for a few seconds, feeling for a pulse before moving on to the man’s foot.  
“Is he okay?” John asked quietly but received no answer.

Once the older man had removed the second nail, he surprised them all, by applying basic first aid. Rusty splashed what looked like antiseptic over each wound and then tightly bound each one carefully, before checking the detective’s pulse for the second time.  
“Is he alright?” John asked again, more nervously this time; but once again there was no reply.  
Rusty gathered up the few remaining items and made to leave, but not before placing a packet of smelling salts under the detective’s nose, waking him from his temporary escape. Without saying another word, he too left, carefully locking the door behind him.  
“Sherlock?” they both called out softly but neither received any kind of acknowledgement. The detective appeared to be frozen in the position he had been nailed in, his eyes staring blankly at the red spotted bandage around his hand.

John turned to look at him, to share a worried glance but Greg tried to ignore it. He was sick of seeing that look on his friend’s face, he was sick of all of it. He was sick of this cell, sick of the unknown, sick of watching the same shit every few hours and being powerless to stop it.  
He wondered if it might just be easier to look away, to try to forget. He was supposed to be doing that anyway… playing the part of the disgruntled colleague… but he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t do that to Sherlock or to John, so he kept watching, plan be damned. If they were going to kill him (and he was now sure that they would), he wasn’t going to waste any more of his time pretending to hate his friend. Instead, he pressed his face to the bars and watched the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and let his heart slowly break.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
Dimmock had been at the indicated location for about ten minutes before another squad car arrived. Together with the other officers, he had scanned the abandoned warehouse looking for signs of recent use or activity. The building was silent, only the distant sound of traffic and the occasional bird could be heard over the scuffle of their feet in the dirt. A side door looked like it had been pried open and several windows were smashed, yet there were no visible signs of footprints anywhere around the property. They did eventually find one set of partial tire treads but they could have been weeks old with the amount of weathering they had been subjected to. Patches of graffiti covered the walls and old cigarette butts littered the ground… in short, it looked like any other abandoned warehouse he had ever seen. 

Even though he was confident that this was not the place that they were looking for, he was just preparing to enter the run-down building, when he received a call that one of the other teams had located the missing white van outside the third location identified by Jarrod.  
“Are you positive it’s the right van?” Dimmock asked excitedly, snatching the radio from the constable’s hand.  
“Yes sir,” came the scratchy response, “description and numberplates match. It is parked just a short distance from the address you gave us. Should we proceed?”  
“How many are you?”  
“There’s three of us in total sir. It seems fairly quiet.”  
He wanted nothing more than to send them off, but he knew better.  
“Negative, I’m on my way. I want satellite imagery and monitoring on the building ASAP. I also want you to call for backup. I want an armed response team on site within the next 20 minutes. If that really is the place, we may encounter hostiles. Oh, and get an Ambulance crew on standby just in case. Don’t do anything until I get there, is that understood?”  
“Yes sir.”  
He threw the radio back to the police constable, his heart racing.  
“Come on let’s go.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
“Sherlock?”  
After five minutes of near silence, John was beyond worried. Since Rusty had left, Sherlock had remained frozen. His right leg had given way and was now splayed out in front of him but other than that, the only movement came from the rise and fall of the man’s chest.  
“Sherlock, you’re scaring me.”  
Still nothing. The detective’s breathing was erratic and filled with a disturbing assortment of whimpers and groans. But despite their best efforts, neither he nor Greg could get Sherlock to talk, or communicate with them in any way. He wouldn’t look at them either; his eyes still stared vacantly at his bandaged hand.  
“Just say something please,” he was openly pleading now, and still the room remained quiet.

A few minutes later, his friend took a deep breath and with a loud chocked scream, slowly pulled his left arm down and in towards his battered body. He rolled onto his side, letting his arms fold weakly beneath him.  
“Sherlock?” he tried again hopefully, but just like all the other times, his call went unanswered.  
Sherlock made no further attempt to move after that, letting his eyes roll shut as he breathed heavily through his teeth.  
After a while the room fell quiet again.  
The silence was deafening.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
It took him fifteen minutes to arrive at the old factory and meet with the other officers on scene. It seemed almost ironic that he was back in Wembley, just kilometres from where he had started the day. It shouldn’t surprise him really, he had been going around in circles ever since this thing had started, why should today be any different? 

The building itself seemed fairly common but it was the van parked outside that drew his attention - a white Volkswagen Transporter.  
“What do we have?” he asked one of the other officers quietly.  
“There’s been no movement since we arrived sir. We thought we heard some noises coming from inside, but they stopped about 10 minutes ago. It’s been quiet ever since.”  
He tried to push down the nervous flutter that ran through his stomach. That could mean anything, he reminded himself quickly. _No use jumping to conclusions._  
“Okay, where’s our back up?” he asked, looking around anxiously. If they really were inside, then every minute they wasted could put them in further jeopardy.  
“I checked about five minutes ago sir, they were still 15 minutes out.”  
“Well, check again.”


	22. Broken

***- Lestrade -***  
While watching his friend, lie motionless, he couldn’t help but think that they had lost him somehow. Sherlock Holmes, the pain in the ass, arrogant know it all. The man who makes criminals tremble and police officers cry, was gone.  
He had known the detective for almost seven years, and in all that time he had never imagined that someone could break thought that thick and stubborn wall of his. And yet, there he was, lying broken on the ground in front of them. He had tried to convince himself that it was all just part of the act, but as the minutes ticked by, he was finding the lie harder to believe.

He watched despairingly as another shiver ran through his friend’s exposed body. The concrete floor could not be doing the man any favours. The corner of the mattress lay just to the left of Sherlock’s head, if he were to put his hand out, he would be able to touch it. Greg couldn’t help but think back to the previous night, when he had seen Sherlock spend hours staring longingly at the soft surface, his body straining and bleeding…  
“Sherlock mate,” he called softly, “why don’t you move over to the bed? It’ll be more comfortable.”  
After all this time of nothing, he was surprised to see Sherlock’s body visibly stiffen at his suggestion.  
“Sherlock?” he called worriedly but received no answer.  
His friend slowly turned his head to stare at the object in question, then took a deep breath and slowly rolled to his stomach. A series of inhuman sounds, reverberated around the two room, as he tried to prop himself up onto his ‘good’ arm. Once up, the detective stared along the mattress’ bumpy surface for over a minute, but made no further move towards it. Instead, Sherlock turned his head and stared straight at him, an anguished look on his face.  
“What’s the matter?” he asked, suddenly feeling frightened.  
“Sherlock?” John called questioningly, also sensing that something was wrong.

The detective’s gaze slowly moved over to the doctor, and a second later a slight quiver ran through the man’s bottom lip. Sherlock’s eyes quickly closed and his head returned to rest on his arm. Greg could feel John staring at him, but he couldn’t look away. His eyes never left Sherlock, watching as the detective’s head moved once again to look at the mattress, before quickly turning away again. What was going on?  
A few minutes later, and with great effort, Sherlock had managed to pull his knees up beneath him.  
The man looked like a wounded animal - a puppy with a sore paw. He balanced on his knees and his right hand, the left tucked protectively against his body. He paused there for a moment, then began to slowly move. Not towards the bed but in the opposite direction; across the other side of the room and towards the door separating their two cells.  
He couldn’t begin to describe how he felt, as he walked over to the doorway and crouched down beside it. His body trembled as he watched his friend inch his way towards them, whimpering loudly and panting and heavily as if running a marathon. Time seemed to slow, as the detective drew nearer; until finally he was there, collapsing sideways, on his right, to face them.  
“Hey,” he said quietly with a slight smile, as he pushed his hand through the bars to gently touch his friends arm. The skin felt cold and sticky with perspiration, but it was real and solid, and it was Sherlock. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
No words were said, none were needed, as he stared into his best friend’s face. He had never seen Sherlock look so damaged before and it broke his heart. The man’s features were filled with pain, his eyebrows furrowed and his teeth clenched. John gently moved his hand up to rest behind Sherlock’s neck. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes, as he gave his friend a weak smile, his neck a comforting squeeze.  
Sherlock suddenly looked away, his head turning to face the floor, trying to hide his silent tears. John could feel the warm, salty liquid run freely down his face, as he slowly sat up and tried to wipe them away.  
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”  
A minute later, a red eyed Greg handed him his jacket, which the two of them gently placed under the detective’s head. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but immediately buried his face into its’ soft folds, then closed his eyes and refused to look at them again.  
Unfazed, John carefully shrugged out of his own jacket which they carefully draped over their friend’s shivering form. The detective sighed heavily but remained quiet.  
Oh, what he would do to hear that baritone voice again. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
It had taken a lot longer than he had expected, but with everyone now in position and several medics on standby, he was finally able to give the order to move in. On his word, men started to spill into the various entrances of the factory, while others stayed behind to guard the perimeter and secure the vehicle. If there really was anyone inside, they were not going anywhere.  
He had been following two officers into the back section of the building, when he received a message through his ear piece that they had taken a man into custody. Continuing their search through the building, Dimmock and his team found nothing of interest, except for four large crates filled with various firearms and ammunition.  
Sounds of yelling came from outside, followed by a number of gun shots, but before he had time to offer assistance, the call came through that they had a second suspect in custody.  
A further sweep of the building confirmed that it was now empty.  
There was no sign of Lestrade or the others.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Tearing himself away from Sherlock’s side, John got to his feet and made his way over to the small sink to collect what little supplies they had. He dampened a couple of torn rags under the tap, before stumbling his way back. He risked a quick look at Greg, who had taken up his spot by Sherlock’s head, wondering if the Inspector had seen him stagger. Greg looked at him in concern but said nothing. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was a doctor and Sherlock needed his help.

The detective’s face was a swollen mess of cuts and bruises; in fact, if it wasn’t for his curly black hair, John doubted whether anyone would actually recognise him. His nose was broken and his jaw swollen. A couple of cuts looked like they could be infected but it was hard to tell through all the dried blood. Pulling back the jacket, he could see his friend’s chest littered with fierce red marks and bruises. There were dozens of cuts and burns extending down onto the man’s arms, but none looked too serious. It was the sight of his friend’s back, however, that caused the bile to rise in his throat. From a distance it had looked bad, but up close it was truly horrifying. Bright red welts and deep inflamed gashes, covered the entire surface. The whole area was caked in both dried and fresh blood, the wounds no doubt aggravated by his most recent mistreatment.  
John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Where should he even begin?  
With Sherlock’s lower body and back, obscured and hard to reach, he focused his attention on his friend’s hands. The same hands which had always been so animated, now lay limp and bloody; a giant hole through one, and a tremor through the other.

“Sherlock, I’m just going to take a look at your hand okay? I’ll try to be careful,” he called softly, hoping to get his friend’s attention. He slowly moved his hand towards Sherlock’s trembling frame, but stopped just short of touching him. Sherlock still hadn’t responded, what if he panicked? Lashed out and injured himself? He looked over at Lestrade for help.  
“Sherlock,” Greg whispered quietly, as he ducked his head down towards the detective. “Mate, can you please say something… you are really freaking us out.”  
Sherlock grunted ever so slightly and turned his head to look at the Inspector, who carefully brushed the mattered hair away from his face.  
“John just wants to have a look at your hand,” Lestrade continued quietly. “Is that okay?”  
He didn’t see or hear a response but there must have been one, because a few seconds later, Greg had turned and given him an encouraging nod.

Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and gently grasped his friend’s left hand and carefully pulled it closer to examine. He quickly froze, however, when Sherlock began to scream, his face distorting with pain.  
“Sorry!” he said in alarm, “what is it? Your shoulder?”  
Sherlock nodded wordlessly, his eyes tightly shut.  
“It’s probably dislocated, here, let me have a look.”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
John sighed. “Look I know it hurts,” he started sadly, “but if it is dislocated, then you know that once its put back into place, a lot of the pain will go away.”  
Greg looked at him miserably. “Well, the pain in that shoulder, at least…”  
Sherlock sighed heavily. The man looked like he was about to cry.  
John leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on the shoulder in question, carefully running his fingers over the swollen joint. “Yeah, it doesn’t feel right.”  
Sherlock sighed again and closed his eyes again.  
“You’re going to have to sit up, so we can put it back in.”  
A weak whimper came from their friend, as the man tried to bury his head back into Greg’s jacket.  
“There’s no rush mate,” Greg whispered. “Take your time.”

A few minutes, and many grunts and groans later, Sherlock had managed to pull himself upright into a kneeling position, where John could properly examine his shoulder. Normally resetting a dislocated arm would be a walk in the park, however, it requires a lot of strength. With his left arm out of action, it meant that he would need some extra help. After explaining and demonstrating what needed to be done, both Greg and Sherlock looked as though they wanted to be sick.  
“Now remember,” he reminded them, “nice and slow.”  
Sherlock gripped hold of a bar with his right hand, while Greg slowly pulled back on the other. Both men grimaced but only one made a noise.  
“That’s it, keep going,” he muttered encouragingly, trying to ignore his friend’s agonised groans.  
“I feel like I’m going to break his arm.” Greg mumbled.  
“You won’t, just keep going,” he assured him, moving his hand to push against the detective’s upper torso, increasing the pull. “Almost there Sherlock,” he called reassuringly before adding, “a bit harder Greg.”  
“Stop, stop, stop!” the detective whimpered pathetically. They almost had it.  
“Keep going… just a bit… more…”  
With a faint pop, the bone slid back into place and Sherlock let out a huge sigh of relief. His body sagged into the bars, his face as white as a sheet.  
“Thank you,” his friend whispered, trying to catch his breath.  
“No problem.”

It wasn’t long, before Sherlock had dropped back down to his previous position on the floor and had been wrapped back up in John’s jacket. Greg silently poked his arm through the bars and stroked the man’s head, while John went back to examining the detective’s hand. The puncture wound itself was hidden behind the bandage which he was reluctant to move. It looked relatively clean and was bound quite well. Add to that, the use of antiseptic around the wound and it was probably ten times better than anything he could offer in their current situation. He therefore, turned his attention instead, to the rest of the hand, checking for feeling and range of movement; all of which seemed reasonably good, under the circumstances. As he moved up to inspect the man’s wrists, he had to pause. It looked terrible. Deep wounds had dried and scabbed over, only to be re-opened again later. A deep layer of bruising accompanied the gashes, no doubt making them very painful to touch. A quick check of the other hand confirmed that it too, was in a similar state of harm. Despite the manipulation, Sherlock did very little. Occasionally the man would flinch or hiss in pain but for the majority of the time he remained motionless, eyes closed tightly, his head nestled in Greg’s jacket.

It wasn’t the puncture wounds that had John worried, or even his wrists, but rather the way he was breathing. Sherlock’s skin felt cold and clammy, his body trembled - all signs that the detective was going into shock. Ideally, he would give the man fluids, but without an IV line, it could prove problematic. In truth, there was not a lot he could do other than try to keep the detective warm and calm. It was this reason, he suspected, that Sherlock had crawled over to them in the first place.  
“Your hand doesn’t look too bad Sherlock, but your body is going into shock,” he told the detective quietly. “You need to try to calm down, slow your breathing.”  
“Mmmm,” his friend replied knowingly.  
“I’m going to try to clean your wrists up a bit, and your face. Just try to relax.” Sherlock shook his head, his eyes opening slowly.  
“Why not?” Greg asked him gently.  
“No po’nt.”  
His voice sounded so weak, so defeated. The worst part was, he knew Sherlock was right. There was no point, because the next time they came and got him, it would just happen all over again.  
“There’s no harm either,” he eventually said, staring into his best friend’s face. Sherlock stared back wordlessly before his gaze dropped and his eyes glazed over more.  
As he began the painful task of trying to clean Sherlock’s bruised wrists, Greg continued to run his hands through the man’s hair, as if comforting a sick child. Within minutes their friend’s breathing had slowed and his eyes were closed. If it weren’t for the clenched teeth and furrowed eyebrows, he could have believed that the man was sleeping.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Donovan had been sitting in a particularly dull and tedious briefing when she felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. Thankful for the excuse and the distraction, she quietly got to her feet and shuffled out of the room, earning herself a stern glare from Agent Ward as she went.  
“Donovan,” she answered wearily without even checking the number.  
“It’s Dimmock, I have some news.” Her heart skipped a beat.  
“What is it?”  
“That ‘Jack Redden’ lead you gave us? Well it turned out to be a lot more fruitful than we thought. We tracked down a friend of his, who gave us four possible meeting locations. Now three were duds but the forth was quite interesting.”  
“Right,” she replied warily.  
“We’ve now located the van and have two men in custody.”  
Sally was speechless. She had been hoping for some good news, but it seemed almost too good to be true.  
“Still no sign of them?”  
“Not yet, we have a forensics team going over the van; we should know more within the hour. We’re taking the two men to the local station now for questioning, but we’ll stay in the area and do a thorough sweep.”  
Her mind was racing; she had so many questions but didn’t know where to start.  
“Who are the they? Where are you?”  
“Out by Wembley Industrial Park, give me a minute and I’ll send you the address. As for who the men are… well, your guess is as good as mine. They clammed up right away, won’t say a thing. We’ll run for prints as soon as we get to the station.”  
“What station?”  
“Wembley, why? You going to come visit?”  
“Doubt it,” she muttered. “But I’m going to make a couple of calls, see if I can get some people down to help you.”  
“And since when can you do that?” Dimmock asked incredulously.  
“I can’t,” she said slightly annoyed, “but I know someone who can.”  
“Right,” Dimmock said sceptically.  
After Sally had squeezed some more details out of him and the two of them had promised to keep each other apprised on any further information, the two eventually hung up and Sally had a moment to let this new information sink in. Finally, they had some positive news. A good lead and two people of interest - things were starting to look up.  
“Donovan!”  
She turned to see Agent Ward, walking towards her, while other people filed out of the briefing room behind him. “We’ve got to go; they’re sending us out to Sutton.”  
In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to hit the man in the face and storm her way out of there. Screw him and screw the Home Office. She would drive out to Wembley and help Dimmock with the investigation…  
_But what if they came across something in Sutton that might help? If she wasn’t there, no one would look twice…_  
She sighed, “I’ll be there in a minute” she replied tersely, dialling the familiar number. It answered almost immediately.  
“Sergeant Donovan.”  
“Mr Holmes.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Every grunt and groan out of the detective’s mouth, hurt Greg just that little bit more. My god what had they done to him?  
Sherlock’s head felt cold and sweaty, his hair stuck to his face in big clumps. John was doing his best to be as careful as possible, but it seemed that no matter what the doctor did, the detective’s eyebrows would always furrow just that little bit more, his teeth clench just that little bit harder. 

He gently ran his hand back through the man’s hair, remembering all the times that his own father had done the same for him. It had always been comforting growing up; he just hoped that Sherlock would feel the same way. After a few minutes, he was pleased to see the detective gradually responding to his soothing touch. His breathing slowed and became less erratic, to the point where he almost looked asleep. John had said that the detective was in shock, something which did not surprise him at all. He looked terrible, even more so up close.

John didn’t look much better himself. He could see a slight tremble run through the doctor’s. He supposed it could be from stress or the recent onslaught of emotions, but he suspected that it was more likely due to the same reason he had stumbled into the wall earlier. The man’s brow was creased with worry and covered in beads of sweat. Silence hung in the air like a thick cloud of smoke, making him uncomfortable. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to that laser light place?” he suddenly blurted. Sherlock’s eye’s fluttered open, and John looked over at him with equal confusion.  
“No.”  
“Some friends and I were holidaying in Australia when came across this little attraction. It was a series of different rooms, covered in mirrors with laser lights bouncing off them. They created these wonderful environments; one was just like being suspended in space. It was completely black except for thousands of tiny white lights all around us.” He smiled fondly at the memory and John shot him a grateful look. Sherlock on the other hand, settled back down into the jacket, closing his eyes with an annoyed sigh, which made the two of them smile.  
For the first time since this nightmare started, things felt almost normal and it was almost nice.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
Water dripped from above his head as he slowly made his way down the poorly lit corridor. The few lights that remained, flickered off for a moment before struggling back to life, a faint electrical buzz sounded in the distance. Papers and smashed glass littered the floor and he could feel the sharp shards slice into his feet as he tried to step around them. The place was a mess; he had never seen it like this before. Even in the midst of his darkest days, it had never been this bad.  
He tried to open one of the doors but found it well and truly stuck. Walking forward a few meters, he went to turn down another corridor, but found the pathway blocked by fallen debris and broken furniture. Pushing his way forward, he found this new passage in an even worse state than the last. A few steps in, and a slow trickle of water slowly appeared at his bloodied feet. It swirled around him for a second, then continued to pass him by, running smoothly over the once polished timber floors.

The next door he came across, he could pry open just enough to slip inside. It was dark, with leaves and broken glass strewn across the filthy carpet. He took a few steps towards the smashed window and peered outside into the world beyond. It was eerily dark; like a moonless night without stars or city lights. The wind billowed through the room, scattering papers and objects alike. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, revealing the many menacing shadows that lingered around him. Shadows with no faces, people with no names. It made him uneasy. 

He turned to leave, stumbling over a broken picture frame and landing hard on his hands. It was then that the lights flickered and died, plunging the whole room into darkness. He quickly scrambled to his feet and back out into the passageway, where he was met by a growing cloud of smoke. He quickly turned and pushed his way through the fallen debris, back into the main corridor where the lights were glowing just a little brighter and flickered just a little less. He thought he could hear the faint sound of an alarm coming from somewhere in the distance…

“Sherlock?”  
The damaged corridor dissolved around him, as he slowly opened his eyes. John was gently holding his right wrist, looking at him in concern.  
“You okay?” the doctor asked quietly.  
He glanced over at Lestrade who sat beside him, leaning up against the bars. He could see that the Inspector was trying not to worry, but he always did have a terrible poker face.  
“Fine,” he sighed, trying to get into a position that even slightly resembled comfort.  
The truth was, Sherlock was rattled and it was not something he had a lot of experience in. The state of his mind palace was of huge concern. Large sections were badly damaged, while other parts were completely inaccessible. Each time he returned, it’s condition grew worse. The structure became less stable, his thoughts harder to access; it frightened him.

The room was silent for a moment, which made him uneasy. He didn’t like it when they did that, it was clear that they were staring at him. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.  
He hadn’t really talked much since being brought back. Hadn’t really moved much either, unless he had to. It was easier that way, it took less energy. Besides, when he was still, nothing would hurt. Well, everything hurt, but not as much.  
The less he moved the less it hurt. The less he talked, the less it hurt. The less he thought… well… unfortunately, that wasn’t really an option for him. His mind was constantly moving (albeit somewhat slower than usual), so the best he could do, was try to channel his thinking into something useful, which was becoming harder and harder to do. More and more, he found himself dwelling in the past, or thinking about what they might have planned for him next. What could he say to keep them all alive just a little bit longer? What could he reveal about the case without giving too much away? How much more of this interrogation could he take before his body decided to shut down for good?

“So anyway, he takes a few steps backwards and then just goes for it.”  
Lestrade was talking again, but he had no idea what about. He hadn’t been listening.  
“He starts running across this room, which of course looks like some never-ending passage on the Enterprise, and then just as he’s getting into a sprint, BANG! Straight into the wall.”  
He could hear the smile in the man’s voice.  
“I tell ya, it was like something out of a cartoon. He hit the wall face first, then fell straight onto his back.”  
Both men chuckled slightly. He had no idea what was so funny but decided he didn’t care. It was nice to be able to look over at them and see something other than anger, worry or fear.  
“The three of us were laughing so much, we couldn’t breathe.”  
“Was he alright?” John asked curiously.  
“Yeah” Lestrade said with a small laugh, “but then he gets up off the floor and turns to us, as casual as anything and says, ‘is my nose bleeding?’”  
The two huffed in amusement as John finished up with his wrist and carefully laid it on the ground beside him. 

They were both looking at him now, smiles on their faces, but with no idea what they were talking about; he quickly diverted his gaze. An awkward silence descended on the room again, before John asked Lestrade to clean the rags he had been using, leaving the two of them alone.  
“He’s just trying to help,” John murmured quietly.  
“What?” he replied, truly confused.  
“Greg.”  
“Oh… so’ ry, I wasn’t list’ning”, he mumbled quietly. “I was thinking.”  
“About what?”  
He didn’t answer. What was he going to tell him? That he was thinking about how those men had almost broken him? Or about how his mind palace was falling apart? What about the fact that there was no way out? Would John really want to hear all that?  
The truth was, he had been thinking and wondering a great many things, like where the hell his brother was, or whether he would be able to walk again. He was thinking about the missing man and where he might be right now; but most of all, he was wondering what Rusty had planned for him next and whether it was worth it any more. Whether it would just be better to just give up and end it now, before it got any worse.  
“It’s not importan’.”  
He could tell that John wanted to press the issue, but he was saved by Lestrade’s timely return.  
“Here, I brought you some water.” The Inspector said quietly, as he carefully handed him a half-filled muesli bar wrapper. John helped lift his head, as he brought the small pouch to his lips and sucked it dry, savouring the cool liquid and the relief it gave his raw throat.  
“Thank you,” he sighed gratefully, as the Inspector got up to refill the little bag.  
“Have they fed you at all?” John asked softly.  
He almost laughed.  
“Ok,” John replied with his eyebrows furrowing. The doctor started to look him over again, taking his pulse, and trying to check both his pupils and temperature. After a little while his friend sat back down and stared at him for a moment, his frown indicating deep thought. “We saved a couple of muesli bars, if you’re up for one.”  
“Later,” he replied wearily, allowing John to get to work cleaning the dried and oozing blood from his face. 

It was amazing what 24 hours could do to a person, and it alarmed him to think about how much he had deteriorated in that time. He estimated that they had been there, for over two and a half days now. This time yesterday, he had been trying to convince John and Lestrade to trust him.  
24 hours… had it really, only been that long ago?  
It was still early back then, they had been missing for less than 48 hours. The police had no idea where they were, but there was still time to find them. Time for Mycroft to find them. He had been tired and hurting but nothing he couldn’t handle. Even 12 hours ago, things were different. They had a plan, he had hope, but now…  
The idea of an escape was now almost non-existent; any hope for a rescue had all but disappeared. His captors knew more than they should, and they had figured out how to hurt him. He was losing the battle and it wouldn’t be long until he lost the war.

Lestrade returned with some more water and the three of them repeated the process, before John got back to work, gently wiping the area above his right eye. Lestrade had slipped back down next to the door and had started talking again, but he wasn’t listening. He thought about the bars in the window and how close they had been to breaking out. He had to give John and Lestrade some credit, they got further than he thought they would… but now they were all stuck again, with only two small screws standing in their way. That was all they needed, just two screws. If only they had something stronger…  
“Idiot!” He hissed, ripping his head away from John’s grasp. How could he be so stupid?! It was so obvious he could have kicked himself. What on Earth had he been thinking?!  
Perhaps everything wasn’t lost after all.


	23. Plan B

***- Lestrade -***  
“Idiot!” Sherlock hissed angrily, ripping his head free from John’s grasp.  
John quickly pulled back, putting his hands up. “Sorry,” the doctor said apologetically as Sherlock continued to make angry growling noises. “What did I do?” he added, almost as an afterthought.  
“Out of all the stupid, idiotic…”  
“Hey!” he called, “whatever it was, I’m sure it was just an accident.”  
“Hmmm?” Sherlock turned questioningly. He didn’t look like he was in pain, in fact it looked like he was on a case. That familiar spark flickered in his eye. “No, no, no, I wasn’t talking about you.” He said dismissively, and for a moment, Sherlock sounded like his old self.  
“Well who are you talking about?” he asked curiously.  
“Me!”  
His eyes narrowed in confusion, as did John’s.  
“Care to elaborate?” he asked, just as Sherlock scrambled up into an unbalanced, three-legged stance, his left arm still clutched to his side.  
“Sherlock, you really should be lying down, you’re still in shock.” John warned but the detective ignored him, shuffling forward with a new sense of purpose. He was like a man on a mission. The old Sherlock had broken through and he wasn’t going to stop until he had completed his task.  
“What are you doing?” He finally asked, as Sherlock threw himself across the mattress, so his legs splayed out on the concrete. The detective rested there a moment before inching forward on his elbows and sticking his arm down the side of the bed next to the wall.  
Greg looked at John with a quizzical look, and received a similar one in return.  
“Sherlock?” he asked again. The lack of an answer was infuriating. At least now he was back to wanting to throttle the man. It was a nice change, to the constant state of concern and worry he had been in, over the last 18 hours.

A few moments later, Sherlock’s head sunk with a sigh, before the man pulled his arms back beneath him and studied something in his hands. Both he and John were on their feet now, trying to glimpse a look at what on earth the detective was doing.  
“Are you okay?” John asked quietly after the room had descended into silence once more. Sherlock had frozen, as if lost in thought, staring intently at the space beneath him. Whatever he had been doing, John’s voice had apparently broken the spell and Sherlock turned to look at them once more.  
“I got you something that might help.” The detective said with the hint of a smile.  
“Help with what?” Both he and John asked at the same time.  
Sherlock _did_ smile then.  
“Our escape.”

Had he heard that properly? Our escape?  
He had given up on their escape plan hours ago. He and John had been trying to come up with some alternative ideas but so far, they all seemed very risky and farfetched.  
“What do you mean?” he asked curiously, but Sherlock had already started the journey back towards them. It was a huge improvement on the last trip and the man didn’t slump down on the ground this time either. Sherlock managed to manoeuvre his battered body, so that he was sitting against the wall just to the right of them. He was in effect, out of sight but still within arm’s reach.  
“Here” the detective said eventually, sliding a metal object across the floor towards them. “You should be able to finish off those screws with this.”  
John knelt down beside him and took the small object from his hand; it was a scalpel.  
“How in the hell did you manage to get that?” he asked incredulously, squatting down beside John to get a closer look.  
“Getting it wasn’t the problem. Getting it back here, was the hard part.”  
“Amazing… when did you get it?”  
“Yesterday, before they brought me back. I managed to cut a small slit in the side of the mattress and slip it in there, while they were setting up the chains and bricks.”  
“It’s covered in blood,” John mumbled quietly.  
“Like I said, getting it wasn’t the problem.”  
Sherlock was sounding more and more like his old self. The slur had significantly improved and his voice sounded stronger, but the detective could not hide the exhaustion and pain behind his words.

Greg reached over and took the tool from John’s weakened grip, before rushing over to the remaining screws still stuck tightly in place. He pressed the tip and then the handle, up against the thin groove, trying to work out the best way to proceed.  
“Why didn’t you tell us you had it?” John asked the detective.  
“I didn’t think you would approve,” Sherlock replied carefully.  
There was a long pause. “And why would we not approve?”  
“Let’s just say, this wasn’t actually the purpose I had in mind when I took it.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked.  
“It doesn’t matter… besides, this is the first chance I’ve had to get it. There was no point telling you, if you had no way of getting to it.”  
Greg could remember watching him the previous night, when he had spent long hours looking over at his mattress. Was it the bed he longed for, or the blade?  
Deciding he’d rather not know the answer, he took the opportunity to give them his report.  
“Well the handle is too thick to fit the screw right now, but I can always file it down like I did before. It might take a while, but I won’t have to do as much, the shape is already there. The blade will fit for the most part, but we run the risk of breaking it and it could come in handy if we encounter any problems on the way out.”  
He didn’t really know what to do. They all wanted to get out of there now, but at the same time, he didn’t want to rush into it and do something stupid.  
“Don’t wreck the blade, it might be useful,” Sherlock said firmly from his spot behind the wall. In a voice, just above a whisper he added, “just in case”.  
His blood ran cold.  
Surely not. Surely it wasn’t that bad.  
It worried him that Sherlock had felt the need to take those steps in the first place. To come up with this ‘backup plan’. Clearly, he hadn’t held out much hope at the time, or perhaps he was just taking the opportunity when it came up. It didn’t necessary mean anything… did it?  
Suddenly it was all he could think about. His friend’s reluctance to lie on the bed, and the anguished look he gave him when he suggested it…  
He felt sick as he got to work on the metal tool, scraping it against the concrete, more solid and tough than the cheap plastic had been.  
He wasn’t there yet, he had to remind himself. He’s still hanging in there.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
Upon arriving at Wembley Police Station, Dimmock had the two suspects immediately separated; allowing no time for them to formulate a story together, yet plenty of time for them to contemplate just how screwed they were. It was a plan which appeared to be working, if the trembling man in front of him was any indication. He appeared to be the younger of the two, around 20 years old, with jet black hair and an eyebrow ring. His eyes looked sunken and bloodshot, no doubt coming down from some drug induced high.  
“What’s your name?” Peter finally asked.  
The young man remained silent, his nervous eyes darting all over the room, trying not to make eye contact. He was wearing dirty jeans and a black t-shirt which he scrunched and wrapped around his fidgeting hands.  
“Hey, focus!” he said a little more forcefully. “What is your name?”  
“Why am I here?” the young man croaked anxiously.  
“Well, that’s a good question,” he replied patiently; “why do you think you’re here?”  
The young man shrugged and looked down at the table. “Dunno.”  
“Are you going to tell me your name or not? We’re going to find it out eventually, so you might as well save us some time.”  
The man looked at him cautiously but eventually responded with a quiet, “Brian.”  
“Brian what?”  
“Jones,” he mumbled, looking again at the table.  
“How old are you Brian?”  
“21.”  
“Alright Brian, can you tell me what you were doing at the factory just before?”  
“I was just meeting a mate,” the young man answered dejectedly, looking intently at his hands.  
“And what’s your mate’s name?”  
Brian stayed quiet, avoiding eye contact.  
“Brian?” he said firmly.  
“I dunno.”  
“You don’t know?”  
“Nuh.”  
“Not a very good mate then is he?” Brian shrugged again but stayed quiet. Peter sighed and closed his eyes.  
This was going to take a while.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- John -***  
_“Let’s just say, this wasn’t actually the purpose I had in mind when I took it.”_  
Over and over, the words played in his head. Just what on earth was that supposed to mean?  
Greg had looked, downright ill with Sherlock’s confession, and the man hadn’t made eye contact with either of them since. He knew what the Inspector was thinking; but this was Sherlock they were talking about. He would never… No, there must be another explanation. Maybe all that he meant, was that he didn’t think it would ever be used in that particular way Yes, that must be it. Of course, who would? He probably intended to use it to pick the lock or something…

“Let me take a look at your back,” John said numbly, trying to rid his mind of his current thoughts.  
“John, there’s really no…”  
“Please, Sherlock.”  
His friend sighed, but after a few seconds he shuffled his way sideways, and gently eased himself back to the ground, head resting snugly in Greg’s jackets.  
The sight of Sherlock’s raw and exposed back made John feel sick. What the hell had they done to him? 

The detective lay still, while he did his best to clean the countless wounds. He was being as gentle as he could, while Sherlock did his best to remain quiet. It pained him to realise that they were both failing miserably.  
He had tried to talk to the detective, to gently prod for information about what had been done to him, but his friend was not interested in talking. Sherlock’s new-found energy was starting to fade, his voice was sounding tired and strained again. He watched quietly as a shudder went through Sherlock’s body and his friend’s head, sunk further into the makeshift pillow. “Can you stop for a minute?” The man sounded weary and overly emotional.  
“Are you okay?” he asked, before realising what a stupid question it was. “I mean… how are you holding up?”  
“I’m fine John,” the man gasped, “I just need a few minutes.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
“Was that your van parked outside?” Dimmock asked for the second time, his patience wearing thin. The young man looked over towards the door and shook his head. “Brian, I need you to answer verbally please.”  
“No.”  
“No what?”  
“No, it wasn’t mine.”  
“Do you know who the van belongs to?”  
“Nuh.”  
“So, if that wasn’t your van, and there was no other vehicle around, then how did you get there?” Peter asked getting increasingly frustrated. The young man remained quiet, his hands twisting in the folds of his shirt. “Well?”  
Again, no response. This clearly wasn’t working; it was time to change tactics. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you Brian, I really don’t have time for this. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what was in those crates at the factory. What I’m interested in, are the three people who were abducted in that van Tuesday night.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Forget possession, you’re looking at charges of breaking and entering, abduction, kidnapping, unlawful restraint…”  
“Wow, wait a sec…” Brian started in a panic, but Peter ignored him.  
“Arson, obstruction of justice, assault…”  
“Just, hang on! I don’t know anything about...”  
“And you better hope to hell that they’re still alive, or you can add murder to that list too. Do you know what happens to people who kill police officers?”  
“Wha… what?” The young man was speechless, his face twisted in a look of shock and horror.  
“Brian, do you know what happens to people who kill police officers?” He repeated vehemently.  
“Wha… ah… y… yes.” The young man stuttered “but listen, I swear to god… I don’t know anything about that.”  
“Really? And why should I believe you? You haven’t given me a straight answer since you got here Brian. Time’s ticking and so help me… If they die while you’re here wasting my time, I’ll have you on access…”  
“Alright, alright!” Brian yelled, clearly flustered, “what do you want to know?”  
“I want to know what you were doing at that factory!”  
“I was told to go there.”  
“By who?”  
“Just some guy.”  
“Come on Brian!” he yelled impatiently.  
“My dealer, okay! I don’t know his name. Everyone just calls him Swift”.  
“Ok, so this Swift guy tells you to go the warehouse? What for?”  
“Well ya see, I didn’t have enough cash for my regular stash this week, so he said I could do some jobs for him to make up the rest. He said I just had to go there to meet a guy who had an errand that needed running.”  
“How did you get there?”  
“I got a lift.”  
“Who from?”  
He was reluctant then. “Does it matter? They don’t know nothin’.”  
Deciding that it probably wasn’t vital to the case, he let it go for now.  
“Alright, so who’s that other guy we picked up?”  
“I dunno,”  
_“Brian,”_ Peter said warningly.  
“I know he goes by the name Jatz, but apart from that… I swear I don’t know. I never met him before.”  
Peter nodded to himself, making a quick note of the name.  
“So what was the errand?”  
“He wanted me to take the van.”  
“The white Volkswagen?”  
Brian nodded, “yeah.”  
“Take it where?”  
“First he wanted me to drop him off at a tube station and then he wanted me to drive it out near Dartford.”  
“Then what?”  
“He said just to leave it in a car park.”  
“Which one?”  
“That big one near the station.” Peter nodded thoughtfully, adding to his notes.  
“Okay then, what else?”  
“Nothin, that was it.”  
_“Brian,”_ he warned again.  
“I swear, that’s it!” the young man replied defensively.  
“When our officers arrived on scene, they reported hearing yelling. What was that about?”  
Brian went quiet for a minute.  
“I thought the whole thing sounded a bit dodgy and I didn’t wanna do it. I never met this guy so I didn’t trust him. I kept picturing in the movies where some guy is driving along and the car explodes and stuff. I got into a fight with him about it but he kept telling me not to be a pussy and to grow a pair. I was gonna leave, but then he reached into one of those crates and pulled a gun out on me! Eventually the guy made a call to Swift, who told me it was all good and that they just needed me to move the van some place where the coppers couldn’t find it. I just figured it was used to move all the crates and shit. I had no idea, they used it to kidnap people! I swear to god.”

Peter took down a few more notes but he was fairly confident that Brian had not been involved. The young man had frozen up pretty quickly when they had stormed the place. He hadn’t tried to run or resist, which indicated that he probably didn’t know the severity of the situation he was in.  
“Do you know where this ‘Jatz’ came from? Or where the van was before hand?”  
“No,” Brain said confidently, shaking his head.  
“Do you know anything about the van at all?”  
“Nah man, I never seen it before.”  
“So, we won’t find your DNA or your fingerprints inside then?”  
“No way.”  
“In that case, you won’t mind providing us with a sample then?” He was a little more hesitant at that.  
“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled reluctantly.  
“Okay Brian, there’s just one more thing. I’m going to need you to tell me how to find this dealer of yours.”  
“Naw man, don’t ask me to do that!” he said desperately, pulling at the fabric between his fingers.  
“Tick tock Brian!” Peter reminded him harshly.  
“Alright, alright,” he mumbled miserably.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- John -***  
After cleaning Sherlock’s back to the best of his ability, John had kept himself busy by trying to make his detective friend more comfortable. He had replaced his jacket over the man’s trembling body and had then fetched Sherlock a muesli bar and some more water, before slumping down in his spot by the doorway. He was absolutely spent. After pushing his own problems away for so long, they were finally catching up with him, and he could feel the heat and pain radiating down his arm and into his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, the rhythmic sound of scraping metal reminding him again of his friend’s words.  
_“Let’s just say, this wasn’t actually the purpose I had in mind when I took it.”_

He looked over towards Sherlock; the detective was curled into a foetal-like position, his head and body faced away from them. He thought his friend may be asleep, but he couldn’t hold the questions in any longer.  
“Sherlock?” he started hesitantly.  
“Yeah?” said the mumbled voice.  
“What you said before… about the scalpel… What did you mean by that?”  
His friend was silent for a moment. “What?” he answered confused.  
“The scalpel, why did you get it?”  
“Thought I could use it.”  
“What for? Was it to pick the lock?”  
“No,” Sherlock replied tiredly. “Wrong sort of lock. Maybe, if I had a paperclip I could try, but I haven’t seen a lot of them in their pile of torture devices.”  
That made him flinch.  
“John let it go” Greg called gently, turning to face him. “Let him rest.”  
So he did, for about 30 seconds.  
“I’m sorry I can’t, I’ve got to know.”  
“Know what?” Sherlock replied thickly, his energy all but gone.  
“What you meant about the scalpel.”  
Sherlock sighed wearily. “John, do we have to do this now?”  
“Yes, I’m sorry, we do.”  
“I got it ‘cause I thought it might be useful”.  
“For what?”  
“Anything” he replied quietly. “Cut rope or binds, fight our way out, or if it came down to it, a quick death.”  
John felt his stomach plummet, his breath caught in his throat.  
“What do you mean?” he asked, carefully.  
“Thought if things went bad… it’d be nice to have the option.”  
He didn’t know what to say.  
“Sherlock…”  
“It wasn’t just me, I was thinking about,” his friend muttered, turning his head and body to look his way. “We’re running out of time John. You and Lestrade need to leave.”  
John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What was he talking about?  
“As soon as you get out of that room, you both need to go. Get as far away as you can. If they find you, they’ll kill you.” Sherlock’s voice sounded stronger again, if only for a minute.  
“Not going to happen,” he said bluntly, immediately dismissing the idea. “We’re all getting out of this, together.”  
“John…”  
“Forget it Sherlock, I’m not leaving you here! End of discussion!”  
Sherlock sighed and turned back away from him, as the room once again fell silent.  
The explanation hadn’t made him feel any better, but even so, there was still one thing that bothered him.  
“You didn’t want to lie on the bed,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question, yet Sherlock answered anyway.  
“No.”  
“You didn’t trust yourself, did you?”  
This time it was a question, however Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, his silence said it all.  
A few more minutes passed before John muttered his final question.  
“Sherlock? What’s wrong with your legs?” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Sherlock -***  
He could feel his heart race.  
_Belt…_  
_Planks…_  
_Screams…_  
He tried not to think about the dull ache radiating from them, or the memory of how they looked while… He swallowed the large lump in his throat but remained quiet. That was one thing he wasn’t quite ready to talk about. Talking about it would mean thinking about it, and that was something he didn’t want to do just yet.  
“Sherlock?”  
He didn’t reply, and after a few minutes, John gave up.  
The muesli and the water had gone a long way in helping the pain in his stomach, but had also drained him of all his remaining energy. He was so unbelievably exhausted, so incredibly sore that when he closed his eyes, he had considerable trouble opening them again.  
“John?” he mumbled tiredly,  
“Yeah?”  
“Don’t let ‘em see me ‘sleep.”  
He wasn’t awake long enough to hear the reply.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ***- Dimmock -***  
Dimmock watched quietly, as their second suspect checked the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. Already the young man was proving to be far more obnoxious and problematic than Brian had been.  
Looking through the one-way glass into the interview room, Peter could see that the suspect was in his mid-twenties. He was quite a good-looking lad for his age, with light hazel eyes and dark blonde hair. He had the sort of striking features which would make girls swoon, but from what he was hearing, had the personality of an arrogant dick.  
An officer had already been in to take a statement, but left after ten minutes with not so much as a name. In fact, apart from sniggering at their theories and questions, the young man had not made a single sound. With the suspect not cooperating, the interview had been abandoned; but now that Peter had a nickname, he was eager to get in there and question the man for himself.  
Taking another quick look over his notes, he made his way out of the viewing area and into the small room. 

Almost immediately, the young man turned to face him, and by the time he had walked over to the table, the black clad suspect had an amused grin on his face.  
“Something funny?” he asked sternly, taking his seat. The young man leaned forward on his elbows, hiding a smirk behind his closed hands. Peter could already feel his anger growing.  
“My name is Detective Inspector Dimmock, I just have a few questions for you.” There was no response. “Can you tell me your full name please, for the record?”  
The only reply he got was an over theatrical shrug.  
“You don’t want to tell us your name? That’s fine, we’ll find it out soon enough. In fact, we’re running your prints right now,” he said confidently, trying to stare the younger man down. It didn’t work though, as Jatz gave a humorous snigger and shook his head a few times in disagreement.  
He watched intently as the suspect absentmindedly picked at his fingernails, clearly bored and uninterested in what he had to say. He understood now, why the other officers had lost their patience with him so quickly. The brat was far too cocky for his own good and clearly thought he was bullet proof. But Not for long my friend, not for long.

“How about in the meantime, I just call you Jatz?”  
With that word, the young man’s eyes snapped up to meet his, the smug smile slowly disappearing from his arrogant face.  
“It is Jatz isn’t it?”  
The suspect swallowed hard before attempting a look of confusion.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Wow,” Dimmock started, with a slight chuckle. “Now, I know why you haven’t said anything; you are a terrible liar.”  
Jatz quickly broke eye contact, glancing up at the clock. Suddenly the young man didn’t seem so sure of himself anymore. His confidence was quickly slipping and Peter could see the nerves start to appear.  
“I want my phone call,” Jatz said unexpectedly, turning back to face him, all signs of amusement long gone.  
“That’s not how this works,” he started to explain, before being cut off rather abruptly.  
“Fine then,” the young man said with a small smile. “I want my lawyer.”  
_Shit._


	24. Starting to Escalate

***- John -***  
What he wouldn’t give for a shot of morphine right now. Hell, if he was making a list, then a strong dose of antibiotics too. Not to mention fluids and food…  
He knew he should probably eat something, but that meant moving away from Sherlock, which was something he was not willing to do right now.

_“John… don’t let ‘em see me ‘sleep.”_  
_It was mumbled so quietly he almost missed it._  
_“I won’t,” he replied sadly. “I promise.”_

That was the last time he had heard his friend’s voice and that had been over an hour ago, but John still could not bring himself to move from his friend’s side. Greg had given him a number of disapproving looks, but the inspector knew better than to say anything. There was no way John was going to leave Sherlock’s side; not now that he was so close. He continued to watch over his friend like a guardian angel, listening carefully for any signs of distress, or more importantly for…  
Footsteps!

“Sherlock!” John hissed quickly, reaching his arm through the bars, trying to shake his friend awake.  
“Come on Sherlock, wake up!” he repeated more urgently, as the footsteps grew nearer.  
Greg rushed over to help, and the two of them tried to lift the detective by his arm. Sherlock’s body moved lifelessly, his head flopping from side to side like a rag doll.  
“Sherlock!” Greg growled quietly, as they both struggled to pull him upright.  
Sherlock slowly started to come around, just before Frank came into view, followed closely by the night guard. Greg had just enough time to grab the two jackets and pull them back through the bars, without being seen.

Having the night guard there was quite unusual, and actually caused him to wonder whether it was in fact still day time. The truly strange behaviour, however, came from Frank. There were no signs of humour, or enjoyment when he entered Sherlock’s cell, only a serious, stone faced man. It was very out of character for the sick and twisted psychopath, who had always found so much pleasure in their misery.  
“Get up,” Frank said bluntly, standing over the bleary-eyed detective. Sherlock glanced up at him, but made no further effort to move.  
“I said, get up!” the man repeated, planting a foot heavily into his friend’s side.  
Sherlock slumped sideways with a groan, and it took all of his restraint not to yell abuse at the man.  
“GET UP!” Frank snarled again; and this time Sherlock did move. 

The detective grabbed at the bars to his right and turned awkwardly onto his knees. He paused momentarily to gather his strength, before slowly trying to pull himself up. It was agonising to watch. Sherlock’s arms were shaking, his legs trembling. He could see the knuckles on his friend’s right hand, turn white with the effort, while his left arm wrapped tightly around a second bar for support. The detective leaned heavily into the doorway but did not stop, until he was fully upright, panting heavily through clenched teeth.  
“Move!” Frank demanded, pointing to the exit.  
Sherlock took a few deep breaths before painfully sliding his right leg forward a few inches. As soon as he put any weight on the limb, it immediately collapsed beneath him, forcing the man back to his knees. In his frustration, Frank took a step forward and slammed another boot into the detective’s side, sending him sprawling onto his back. Sherlock coughed and groaned in pain, instinctively curling in on himself to protect his vital organs.  
He wanted to scream.  
Both Frank and the night guard, each took Sherlock by an arm and hauled him to his feet. The detective’s legs buckled beneath him and the two men were forced to drag him out. Within seconds, he and Greg were alone once more, both looking just as shell shocked as the other.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
“What the hell was that?” John asked him quietly, a concerned look on his face. Clearly, he was not the only one that had picked up on Frank’s odd behaviour.  
“I don’t know,” he answered miserably turning to watch as John slowly rose to his feet before promptly falling into the wall.  
He couldn’t handle this anymore. He was sick of watching his two friends deteriorate, sick of John not taking care of himself. He knew he had a job to do, but he couldn’t sit by and watch him get any worse, not without trying to help, not anymore.  
“Alright that’s it, bed time!” he announced like he would to a young child.  
“Aaahhmmm… sorry?” John said blankly, staring at him as though he had lost his mind.  
“You heard me,” he replied, grabbing the man’s good arm and throwing it around his neck. He could instantly feel the man’s weight, as John leaned into him, allowing himself to be dragged away from the door.  
“This really isn’t necessary you know.”  
“Oh, I beg to differ.”

He helped manoeuvre his friend over to the corner, slowly lowering him onto the mattress.  
“Right, there’s a good four or five hours before they come back, so this is what’s going to happen…” Lestrade started, fetching a muesli bar from their small stash. “First of all, you are going to eat this and then you are going to sleep.”  
“Greg, I…”  
“No! This is non-negotiable John!” he called in frustration. “I can’t concentrate on the job, if I’m busy worrying about you. You want me to work? Then you’re going to rest. If you stop sleeping, I stop working. That’s how it’s going to be.”  
John’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t do that.”  
“Try me.”  
The two stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, before John eventually gave in and started to pick at the sticky oats.  
Once it was clear that John was not going to fight him anymore, he walked over to the sink, returning a few moments later with a packet of water.  
“Here, and you’re going to take these as well,” he said, pulling out a small package and popping two white tablets from the foil film. John’s face dropped.  
“Oh my god, Sherlock. Why didn’t I think of that?” The doctor groaned miserably, his head buried in his hands.  
“Well it was good thing you didn’t or he would have got a double dose.”  
John looked up at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”  
Greg couldn’t help but smile. “I crushed a couple up and put them in his water.”  
“Good thinking,” John said with a slight chuckle, before grudgingly taking the two pills. 

He flicked the doctor’s feet up onto the mattress and helped guide the man down, before throwing his jacket over the top of him and ordering, in no uncertain terms, he go to sleep.  
John knew better than to argue, and within five minutes the doctor was softly snoring.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He was well and truly accustomed to the journey by now, but that never made it any easier. It seemed as though each time he made the trip, something new was waiting for him on the other side of those heavy doors. He had frequented many different rooms along the corridor over the last few days, each offering up its own personal horror. He found this new one though, (the third door on the left) was by far the worst. It did not surprise him at all that they had brought him back here. Clearly they thought they were onto something, and the sad fact was, they were right. 

He felt himself tense up as they pushed him into the room; the sight of the work bench made his insides turn.  
“Welcome back Mr Holmes,” Mr X said coldly, turning to face them. Like the other two he seemed… distracted.  
He hadn’t seen much of the leader during the last few interrogations, but his presence now confirmed his suspicions that something had happened. Putting on his best poker face, he turned to the suited man and attempted conversation. He refused to let these idiots see how terrified he was, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.  
“I see you’re down a few men and you’ve got some tension in the ranks. Trouble?” He said slowly, with as much condescension as possible.  
“Nothing we can’t handle,” the man replied coolly, before pointing over to the table. “Bench.”  
He kept his face neutral as the two men dragged him over to the long thin table. Just like last time, one end had been adjusted so it stuck up like a very uncomfortable deck chair, which he was unceremoniously dumped on. He tried to look bored as they restrained his hands, all the while trying to gather more data.  
“What’s happened?” he tried again, almost mockingly. “The police closing in?”  
“That’s enough out of you!” Frank growled dangerously, pulling unnecessary hard on his injured arms. Mr X slowly approached, a long leather belt hanging from each hand. Sherlock couldn’t help the wave of panic wash over him as he struggled to keep his mask in place. X deposited the two belts on his outstretched legs before leaning into him, a sinister smile on his face.  
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
He hated lawyers. They were the bane of his existence. There was not a single lawyer he had ever met, that hadn’t found a way to complicate things. Even when they weren’t around, they still had the uncanny ability to get in the way…

He stood inside the viewing room again, watching as the younger man become more and more anxious. It was a common sight - a suspect in damage control; their mind furiously working on a plausible story to explain their whereabouts. Meanwhile, they cry for their attorney to buy themselves more time. He had seen it thousands of times before and it frustrated him to no end, but there was nothing he could do about it, except to wait for one to arrive.  
In the meantime, he had sent officers out to Dartford, who had so far reported nothing at the address Brian had provided. It was nothing more than your average car park, which begged the question; why Dartford? Were they taking the van there for a particular reason, or did they want it to be found? Was this just another attempt to keep them running around in circles? To lead them off track? If that was the case, they could pretty much rule out anywhere north or east of the city, which let’s face it, didn’t help that much in a city the size of London. It also raised the question of the van itself. Was it just another decoy, or had they in fact found the getaway vehicle?  
Coincidently, just as he was having that particular train of thought, his phone rang. It was one of the crime scene techs, confirming that the van’s tyre treads were a match to those found at the abandoned warehouse. The analyst also reported small traces of blood in the back compartment, but that was where the good news ended. The van was otherwise empty, wiped clean of trace evidence and thoroughly cleaned. No blood samples could be taken, no fingerprints lifted. They were once again back where they started.

After giving his thanks, Peter ended the call and continued to glare at their young suspect, wriggling around impatiently in his seat. He had no doubt that the young man in front of him knew something. It was written all over his face. They just needed the little shit to talk.  
He checked his watch, 1:16pm. God, what was taking so long?!

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Sherlock had only been gone for about an hour when he heard the footsteps return.  
They were moving faster than usual, and for a brief moment, he entertained the possibility that it was the sound of their rescue. Considering Frank’s strange behaviour earlier and the short period of time since Sherlock was taken, it didn’t seem completely out of the question.  
Any second now, a small team of armed officers would appear in the doorway and break them out. They would all be rushed off to hospital and that would be that. They would give their statements, the men would be locked up and he would never have to think of them again… Deep down however, he knew that wasn’t the case.  
Without thinking, he quickly shoved the scalpel into his trouser pocket and rushed over to John, gently shaking him awake. He stayed by his friend’s side, watching and waiting for the detective’s inevitable return.  
It took only seconds before Frank and the night guard appeared at their door. The first thing he noticed was Sherlock’s obvious absence, closely followed by the 9mm held firmly in the guard’s hand.  
He felt the blood drain from his face, as the two men stopped short of the neighbouring cell.  
_What was going on?_  
_Why were they here?_  
_Where was Sherlock?_

His heart began to race as he felt his body slowly rise from the floor and take an unconscious step backward. Something was wrong. This was not good.  
Suddenly their door swung open and both men rushed in, weapons waving in the air.  
“Don’t move!” Frank yelled dangerously, pointing a gun in his face.  
He felt a cold chill run down his spine, as he instinctively took another half step back, watching in horror as the night guard trained his weapon at John’s chest. The doctor froze.  
It had all happened so fast and unexpectedly, that neither of them had time to react. All his years of training suddenly abandoned him, as he felt the panic start to take over.  
“What’s going on?” he stuttered in alarm, receiving no answer in return.  
Frank took a few steps forward and pushed the gun into his chest, forcing him towards the back of the room.  
“Shut UP!” the man yelled furiously, shoving him into the ground.  
In less than a second, Frank had the barrel of the pistol, up under his chin. His heart was beating so fast, he could almost hear it.

He felt a hand grip him tightly around the throat, before he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. He was still aware of the dark presence which lingered overhead and of the constant force which pushed down against him, but he felt better for not having to witness it. He could hear John talking and asking questions, before he heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked, very close to his head.  
Suddenly the roar of blood flowing through his head was all he could hear, making him disorientated and dizzy. The voice above him was saying things that his body could no longer process. He could feel the warm metal dig into his skin, but that was all, the rest of him felt completely numb.  
This was it. They were going to kill him; and just as their escape plan was finally back on track.  
What would they do when they discovered the scalpel on his body? If only he had hidden it like before, then perhaps John and Sherlock would still have a chance. He took a deep breath and waited for the sound of gunfire, wondering vaguely if he would even hear the shot before the bullet destroyed his brain.

People always say that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before you die, but he wasn’t getting any of that. Amongst all the strange thoughts running through his head in that instant, he thought about his family and his friends back at the station and how he hoped that they would one day have a body to bury.  
He thought about Molly Hooper, down in the morgue at St. Barts and wondered whether she would be the one to cut him open.  
He wondered what people would say, when they found out that he had died. Would anyone mourn for him?  
He wished he could have done more to get them out, to keep John and Sherlock safe. He hoped that the detective would not blame himself and he hoped that they wouldn’t give up. He also wondered how John would cope, seeing his brains splatter all over the wall.  
Would it hurt?  
In that moment, he realised just how alone he truly was. He was surrounded by all these people, one of whom was a good friend. But when it came down to it, none of them mattered. He was going to die alone, and the idea terrified him.  
With nothing else to do, Greg tried to make peace with his fate. He took a deep breath and waited for the impact.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
“Woah, wait, wait, wait!” John yelled frantically, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”  
He looked around wildly at the unnamed guard, who took a few steps towards him and pointed the gun directly at his chest. He felt his stomach drop; his heart was beating so fast, it felt like it would leap from his chest.  
“Get up” the man barked, stopping just short of the mattress. It took him a few seconds to process the words.  
“I said get up!” the man repeated a little more forcefully, taking another step forward.  
“Wh… why?” he asked numbly, as he tried to scramble to his feet.  
“Don’t ask questions.”  
His legs were shaky and his nerves were failing as he was eventually pulled to his feet. Eyes wide, he scanned the room, taking no comfort in what he saw. All of the colour had drained from Greg’s face, his breathing was fast and uneven. Frank pressed the gun further into the man’s flesh… God he hoped this wasn’t what it looked like. Sherlock had told him they were running out of time… Was that time now officially over? What had happened to his friend while he slept? Was he even still alive?  
“Move,” the night guard said forcefully, waving the gun towards the door.  
“Why? Where are you taking me?”  
“I said, don’t ask questions!” the man replied, slapping him across the face. The blow came as a shock and it made his eyes water and his ears ring. He felt his composure start to slip.  
“Hurry up!” Frank added angrily, turning towards him, his gun still held firmly against Greg’s head. “Try anything, and I’ll happily rid the world of another filthy pig.”  
Frank cocked the gun and pushed it deeper into his friend’s skin. Greg whimpered slightly, his eyes still firmly closed.  
“Okay, okay!” he said in a panic, forcing himself forward. He tried his best to ignore the powerful urge to vomit, as he made the final steps through the door.  
“Looks like it’s a stay of execution,” Frank sneered at the cowering Inspector. “At least for now, anyway...”  
The gun was pulled away and Greg’s body slumped in relief. Frank turned with a smirk and made his way out of the small room, locking the barred door behind him.

Lestrade slowly opened his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.  
“Where are you taking him?”  
The Inspector’s voice sounded strained and full of emotion but it was enough to make Frank stop dead in his tracks. Greg looked shaken but he had put on a brave face, as he slowly got to his feet and took a few tentative steps forward. Frank clenched at the gun in his fist before turning back towards the occupied cell.  
“I remember telling you not to move and to shut up!”  
It was said so fiercely that it made a shiver run down his spine. Greg froze.  
“I warned you.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
In slow motion, he saw Frank lift the gun towards him, a murderous look on his face. His brain screamed frantically for him to move but his body wouldn’t respond. In the end, he stood helpless as the gun went off. A burning fire tore through his upper leg, moments before he heard the sound. Within seconds he found himself on the ground, staring blankly at the concrete walls, his ears ringing.  
“Greg!” He heard John yell, but it took him a second to register; his mind preoccupied by the sudden hole in his left leg.  
“And stay down!” Frank yelled at him, giving a final threatening glare before he stormed off out of sight, dragging a screaming doctor behind him.  
He instinctively curled in on himself and placed his hand against the entry wound. The action sent a sharp pain shooting up his leg and he quickly removed it. Raising his hand, he could see the warm, sticky liquid, slowly drop from his fingertips. He closed his eyes and groaned.  
Eventually the sound of footsteps disappeared and Greg felt himself relax a little. He appeared to be out of danger for now, but who knew when they would be back. 

Looking down at his trouser leg, Lestrade could instantly see a growing wet patch emanating from a spot just above his knee. Sitting up, he slid the scalpel out of his pocket and quickly cut at the fabric, trying to catch a glimpse of the damage underneath. When he finally saw what the bullet had done, he felt like crying in relief. A deep gash had been sliced into the side of his leg around 1o cm up from his left knee. It was a near miss, and not much worse than a bad cut. If the bullet had hit him slightly lower or further to the right, it would have been an entirely different story. He had never before, felt so lucky in his life.

Taking a couple of deep breathes; Greg slowly sat himself up, his head spinning. He rolled onto his knees and gradually crawled over to the toilet, pulling himself onto the seat. He quickly grabbed for their pile of homemade bandages, his hands shaking as he pressed them to the wound. Once the bleeding had stopped, he was able to tie the padding in place with the extra strips of material. Overall, he found the entire process incredibly difficult, knocking his broken fingers several times before he had finished. The whole procedure would have taken less than five minutes but by the end, he found himself staring into space; his mind lost in the memory of fear and panic. He desperately shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts, before lowering himself back to the floor.  
He felt like he was balancing on the thinnest of high wires, with no safety harness. Any movement in any direction would likely push him over the edge into despair, where he would be of no use to anyone. It took all of his remaining will power to keep himself together. 

He found the small scalpel and got back to work, dragging the metal instrument against the concrete floor. The whole encounter had left him very shaken and he could feel the slight tremor in his hands. The tool slipped from his grip and the sharp blade dug deep into the soft flesh above his left thumb. He stared at the red liquid without feeling it, before forcing himself to press on.  
He needed to get out of there. He needed to get out of there right now!

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
John’s heart was thumping as he was dragged down the passageway. He felt dizzy and nauseous at the thought of his two friends.  
Was Lestrade okay? Where had he been hit? Was it a bad wound? Was he dead? He had no way of knowing until he was returned to the cell, if he was returned at all. What about Sherlock? Where was he? Why hadn’t they returned him? Was he still alive?  
The thoughts rained down on him with each step, filling him with a sense of dread. Why did they come for him? Where were they going?

He felt himself stumble, half falling into Frank. The man pulled him upright and shoved him forward with a growl. He felt completely numb; almost detached from the rest of his body. It was like he was walking through a dream; his mind struggled to make sense of what was happening.  
Were they going to kill him now? 

In the distance, he could hear a strangled cry, a deep groan which echoed down the hall. He tried to block out the familiar sound but it grew louder as they dragged him towards one of the open doors. Half of him wanted to struggle and resist, afraid of what awaited him on the other side. The other half of him however, refused to give them the satisfaction and he allowed himself to be escorted in.

The door slammed closed behind them and the moaning immediately stopped. His eyes darted around the room frantically; stopping short when he saw Sherlock’s abused body.  
“Oh, look Mr Holmes, it appears we have company.” Mr X said cheerfully, grabbing Sherlock by the chin and turning his head to face him. Sherlock’s face was pale and covered in a mixture of blood, sweat and tears. Without even realising it, he took a couple of steps forward but firm hands quickly held him in place.  
“Ah ah ah doctor,” X said, shaking his finger. “We’re not quite ready for you yet. Craig, make sure he’s comfortable.”  
He felt himself being tugged away and pushed into a fold out seat. His right arm was handcuffed to some kind of downpipe, before he was left alone. Both Frank and Craig took up positions by the detective’s side, waiting for their next set of instructions. The room fell quiet. 

Since entering the room, John’s eyes had never once left that of his best friend. Sherlock had managed to pull himself together slightly but he still had a haunted look about him. The man looked broken. He could see a million emotions, read a million words on the man’s face, and yet if he had to pick just one to describe that moment, it would have been total and utter despair.  
“I’ll ask you again Mr Holmes…” X started.  
“Don’t bother,” Sherlock whispered miserably, their eyes still connected.  
“Very well,” the man said almost casually. “It’s time to step things up a gear.”  
Sherlock’s lips quivered slightly, before he closed his eyes and let his head roll sideways.  
He felt completely sick. This was not going to be good.


	25. Increasing the Pressure

***- Dimmock -***  
“Sir?” Police Constable Charman called, poking her head through the door. “There’s someone here to see you.”  
_‘Oh, please let it be the god damn lawyer’,_ he thought bitterly to himself, as he followed the officer out into the main foyer. At a first glance, the man definitely looked the part. He was well dressed in an expensive designer suit and had that stench of self-important about him. But on the other hand, he lacked the usual hostility, one had come to expect from a defence attorney.  
“Can I help you?” he asked suspiciously.  
“Detective Inspector Dimmock I presume,” the man said, tucking a small note pad into his jacket pocket.  
“That’s right,” Peter replied, holding out his hand, “and you are?”  
“I have heard a lot about you.” The mystery man continued, ignoring his gesture. “Sergeant Donovan indicated that you could use an extra pair of hands on the Skyridge Kidnapping case. I am led to believe that you have apprehended two suspects. I would like to speak to them immediately.”  
Peter finally dropped his hand, his mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked again, more angry now than curious.  
“My name is Mycroft Holmes.”  
“Holmes?” he said shocked, “as in..?”  
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It would seem as though my brother can’t go more than two days without getting himself into some kind of trouble.” Peter’s anger started to slip away, as he felt himself warming to the man.  
“Listen… Mr Holmes…” he started. “I’m sorry about your brother, I truly am, but this is a current police investigation. I don’t know why Sergeant Donovan sent you up here, but I can’t just let you walk in there and talk to them, no matter how much I want to. I can fill you in on the investigation, let you know what’s been going on, but I cannot permit you to see the suspects, I’m sorry.”  
Mycroft Holmes looked up at him slowly and gave him a small smile.  
“Oh, on the contrary Detective Inspector; you can and you will.”  
That, he was not expecting.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Let’s just say, I work for the British Government and I have a lot of persuasive pull. You will either let me talk to your two suspects, or you’ll be downgraded to Parking Inspector before the day is through.”  
Any warmth or pity he may have had for the man, instantly disappeared. He was feeling backed into a corner and he didn’t like it.  
“Don’t tell me you work for the bloody Home Office as well?” he asked, both angry and annoyed. Mycroft Holmes simply laughed.  
“I don’t work for the Home Office Inspector; the Home Office works for me.” 

That statement caught him completely off guard and he stood silent for a moment. _Was this guy for real?_  
Taking his silence as submission, the Holmes brother continued.  
“I would appreciate you pointing me in the direction of the interview rooms, this shouldn’t take too long.”  
Peter felt unsure of what to do. Looking around, he could see a number of equally confused faces, no doubt thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t the one in charge. He cleared his throat, finally making a decision.  
“I will have to check your credentials Mr Holme,s” he began, suddenly feeling quite nervous. “Make sure you really are who you claim to be.”  
“Of course; I would expect no less. Ring this number,” Holmes said, passing him a small business card “just be quick about it. In the meantime, you can fill me in on what you have already learnt,” Mycroft continued, as he stormed off through to the back of the station.  
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, running up to the desk sergeant and handing him the card. “Check him out will you? As soon as you have anything, let me know.” The sergeant nodded and Peter quickly turned back to the suited man, chasing him down the hall.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
After about twenty minutes of frantic scraping, Greg jumped to his feet and limped over to the window. He tried the tool for the thirteenth time, but it seemed that no matter how long he worked at it, the damn tip wasn’t getting any thinner.  
In his desperation, Greg collected the discarded toothbrush off the floor and started to cut away at the plastic, quickly shaping the end into something usable. Both annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it sooner, and excited with his sudden stroke of genius, he quickly hurried back to the window. It took him a few seconds to adjust the shape before he had the plastic fitting perfectly. Only two screws to go.  
Almost frantically, he began to turn the tool, growling in frustration as it twisted in his sweaty hands. He gripped a little harder and tried again, his heart racing at an alarming rate. His body was shaking, his injured fingers pulled and twisted but he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. His mind was way too rattled with stress and too focused on the task at hand.  
Eventually he thought he might have got a little movement, before the plastic bent, forcing him to stop and repeat the process again. After three more failed attempts, the whole thing became too much and he threw the offending items against the back wall, watching in satisfaction as they scattered across the floor.  
He could feel his panic rising, his breathing rate increase. Not now! He thought angrily, trying desperately to remain calm. Greg could feel himself spiralling out of control, and this time he didn’t think he would be able to stop it.  
Where was John?  
Where was Sherlock?  
What was happening?  
What were they doing to them?  
Was he going to be next?  
When were they coming back?  
Would they be coming back at all? 

Maybe they were just going to leave him there. Leave him trapped in that little cell, until he slowly starved to death. His body would get picked at by rats and bugs until he was nothing more than a pile of bones. A pile of bones, which would lie there undiscovered, for years and years, until they were stumbled across by a couple of drunken teenagers.  
His heart thumped wildly, as he stormed over to the door and slammed his body against the metal. His actions became more erratic, as he ran head on into the second door and shook desperately at the window bars, hoping by some miracle that they would come loose and set him free.  
He had no idea how long the panic attack lasted; only becoming aware of it, when his body collapsed in exhaustion. His chest heaved painfully; tears fell from his face, as he noticed fresh blood running down his leg. His hand was on fire, his broken fingers once again mangled, his body bruised and battered.  
Greg choked back a sob.  
“Okay, calm down” he told himself quietly, trying to concentrate on his breathing. “You need to pull your shit together. You don’t have time for this right now.”  
Surprisingly, that seemed to help, and a few minutes later, Lestrade felt ready to start again. He collected the scalpel and took a couple of deep breaths before getting back to work. Only this time, his grip was slightly weaker and his hands shook a bit more.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
_Pain_  
_Fear_  
_Water_  
_Panic_  
His whole world had been reduced to those four words.  
Just as he would recover from one, another would begin; the constant rotation was getting harder to bear.  
First, they would sit him up. His lungs screaming for air, his legs screaming for relief...  
Every time they did it, the pain was worse. Frank would add a new plank with the start of each rotation. He would grunt or groan, Mr X would talk, John would yell and then the bench would be lowered again. This was when the fear took over…

A small towel would appear over his face, obscuring his vision with a deep sky blue. A number of hands would press down on his head, holding him steadily in place. His breathing would quicken and his body would tense in preparation of what was to come…

Water was then poured onto his head and into his mouth, forcing the sodden cloth down into his throat. Panic soon followed, as it stuck to his skin and sunk into his nose and mouth. His eyes would grow wide and his body contorted and thrashed, as he tried desperately to escape the constant downpour. The hands would grip harder, holding him in place while his chest burned and he felt himself drowning… That was when it usually stopped. 

He would have a few seconds to catch his breath and cough up what little water he took in, before the cycle would start all over again… only this time it didn’t.  
He tried frantically to throw the men off but the water kept coming. It was all he could hear, all he could feel. It crashed into his head in a steady flow, constant and never-ending. He gasped desperately for breath, succeeding in sucking the cloth further down into his throat. Large droplets of water escaped down into his lungs, making him cough. His desperation grew and his logical mind disappeared into pure terror and instinct, as his whole body fought against the onslaught. More and more of the cold liquid poured down his throat, as black dots started to appear in his vision. With one final gasp, his world turned to black and he felt himself fall into blissful darkness.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
Mycroft Holmes started off in the room with Brian but was out again within two minutes. It was fairly obvious to everyone involved, that the younger man had told them everything he knew in his original statement. The kid was nervous and in the early stages of withdrawal. All he really wanted to do was get the hell out of there and as a result, he was being extremely helpful. Jatz on the other hand, was a different story.  
Mr Holmes stormed into the small room, with an unimpressed look on his face and Peter was forced to follow, feeling like an intruder in his own investigation. Jatz looked up at their unexpected entrance but said nothing, no doubt wondering why they were there and who the suited man was. Mycroft walked around the table and stood directly in front of their suspect, quietly studying his dumbstruck face.  
“Good afternoon young man, I have a few questions for you. I would appreciate if you answered them as quickly as possible, so I can get on with more pressing issues.”  
Jatz looked at him in confusion, before turning back to the older Holmes brother, his eyes narrowing.  
“You’re not my lawyer,” the young man said blankly.  
“No, how very observant of you, do try to keep up. I said I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”  
“Yeah actually, I do!” Jatz replied, some of his previous arrogance returning. “I said I wanted a lawyer.”  
“So I have heard,” Mycroft continued dismissively. “I have no doubt that one is on their way but in the meantime, I want you to tell me what you know about the multiple abduction from the Skyridge Hotel on Tuesday night.”  
“Are you deaf?” the youngster said with more than a little attitude. “I’m not talking to any of you coppers, until my lawyer gets here.”  
“On the contrary, I am not a police officer.”  
“Well, then who the hell are you?”  
“Just a concerned citizen.”  
Jatz eyes widened, his eyes flicking between the two of them. “Is this some kind of joke?”  
“I assure you, I find this in no way amusing,” Mr Holmes answered impatiently. “Now are you going to tell me what I want to know, or will I have to get the information out of you some other way?”  
Jatz laughed, “I’d like to see you try.”

Mycroft Holmes considered the young man for a second, before taking the seat opposite him and leaning forward on the table. Jatz stared at the elder Holmes brother for a few seconds before looking around the room, his eyes furrowed in confusion.  
“I’m sorry, is this supposed to scare me?” Jatz said with the hint of a smile.  
“No, but it should.” Mycroft said slowly, making a point to re-establish eye contact with the youngster. “You’ve been busy the last few days.”  
Jatz turned to face Peter once again, “is this guy for real?”  
“You’ve been rather stressed too, going by the state of your fingernails.” Jatz turned back to face the government official, looking a little uncomfortable.  
“Slight bruising and grazing around the knuckles, indicate that you’ve been in a fight recently, or at the very least you’ve punched someone.” Jatz pulled his hands into his lap and continued to stare silently.  
“You’re well dressed; you come from a high-middle class family. You’re well educated too but you try to hide it…” Mycroft paused, his eyes narrowing. “Did you fall into the wrong crowd by accident or did you seek it out?” Jatz dropped his head and Mycroft smiled slightly. It looked like the man was on the right track. 

“You’re wearing a new shirt, but the creases around the shoulder tell me you were both a driver and passenger of a vehicle within the last few hours. You drove the van to the warehouse where you tried to pass it off to a drug addict.”  
Almost instantly, the young man he had previously interviewed was gone. There was no sign of the ignorant and cocky jerk, instead, this new man looked nervous and almost worried.  
“You’ve cut yourself no less than five times shaving - your hand has been trembling. Now you appear to be a relatively fit and healthy young man, which would once again indicate a high stress environment. Either that, or adrenaline, brought on by excitement…” Mycroft paused for a moment, studying the youngster.  
“Not excitement then, nerves perhaps?” Jatz scratched at his nose nervously.  
“You also didn’t clean yourself up very well, you have a dried blood smear underneath your left collar. You tried to wipe it clean but you missed a spot.” Mycroft Holmes leaned over the side of the table to stare down at the man’s legs before continuing. “Slight blood spatter on the left shoe and all of a sudden, I am painting quite a clear picture of what you’ve been doing.”  
With the mention of blood, Peter took a few steps forward, inwardly cursing himself and his incompetent staff, for not picking that up themselves.  
“Shoes off,” he told the young man firmly. Jatz glanced up at him, looking rather shell shocked before he silently pulled them off and kicked them over. 

The room fell silent and Mycroft’s face became very serious.  
“You didn’t just drive the van, you were there. You know where they are.” The young man looked like he wanted to say something, but decided to keep the words to himself, swallowing hard.  
“Whose blood is that? Are they still alive?” Mycroft’s voice faulted slightly at the question and he felt a pang of sympathy flow through him. He had to remember that this was still Sherlock’s brother. As arrogant as he might be, it was his family who had gone missing. Anything could have happened in three days, and as time went on, the chances of them being found alive were rapidly decreasing. All things considered, Peter thought Mycroft was doing a remarkable job at keeping his emotions in check. He didn’t think he would be so calm if their positions were reversed.  
“Where are they?”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jatz finally replied, his voice quiet and strained.  
“And you are a terrible liar,” Mycroft sneered dangerously, rising to his feet. The suited man pulled out his mobile phone and quickly made a call.  
“I need to transfer a prisoner from Wembley Police Station and I need it done an hour ago.”  
Jatz’s head snapped up with a look of what could only be described as fear. His eyes desperately searched the faces of those in the room looking for any sign of deception. Dimmock himself was trying to act professionally, all the while wondering where all of this was going. If Mycroft’s goal was to scare the kid, he had certainly succeeded. Was he actually going to haul him away? Could he even do that?

In less than a minute, the call was ended and Mycroft Holmes had made a b-line towards the door. “If it is not too much trouble Detective Inspector, I require someone to transfer this young man to our private facility.”  
“Woah woah woah, you can’t just do that,” he said hurriedly. “He’s not a prisoner, he’s just a suspect; we haven’t even charged him with anything yet! You can’t just take him away, he’s asked for a lawyer.” He tried his best to keep the conversation quiet, but he could tell from the panicked look on Jatz’s face, that he could hear every word.  
“As I keep reminding you Detective Inspector, I am not the police.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Sally had not always wanted to be a detective. In fact, for a brief period, she had considered a number of different career choices. Immigration, drug squad, intelligence and yes, even counter-terrorism. The idea sounded exciting and adventurous, and nothing at all like what she was currently doing.  
She and Agent Ward were staking out a known drug den, out the back of a small fish and chip shop. So far, their search for people of interest in the Sutton area, had been very unsuccessful. It was almost a relief when her phone rang, providing a distraction from the constant monotony. Looking at the caller ID, she instantly recognised the number as that of Mycroft Holmes and had a brief feeling of unease before finally answering.  
“Sergeant Donovan, I require that both you and your new partner met me at the Home Office immediately. I have just picked up a young man who has information of the whereabouts of our three missing friends. I thought you would wish to be there when we interrogate him.”  
Sally felt her heart soar. It was best news she had received in days.  
“Of course, we’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”  
“Excellent, I shall see you there.”  
“Has he said anything?” she asked quickly, almost as an afterthought. Mycroft didn’t answer at first and Sally thought she may have missed him.  
“Not yet I’m afraid, but he will,” Mycroft said confidently. “I assure you, I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”  
A second later the call disconnected and she quickly turned to fasten her seatbelt.  
“We’re needed back at the Home Office.”  
“Why?” Ward asked suspiciously before being interrupted by his own phone. She remained quiet as he took the call, and had to hide her smile when he started the engine only seconds later.  
“Yes sir, right away,” Ward finished, putting his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Are you going to get that?”  
Sally looked at him blankly; “huh?”  
He pointed to the object in her hand and she looked down, noticing Dimmock’s name flash up on the screen. In the excitement, she hadn’t even noticed it was ringing.  
“Any news?” she answered, not bothering with the normal pleasantries.  
“I’m not sure, something strange just happened,” Dimmock replied rather testily.  
“What?”  
“Well you’re ‘help’ finally arrived… in the form of Sherlock’s brother.”  
“Ahhh,” she replied knowingly. Dimmock sounded pissed.  
“He just turned up out of the blue, flashed his credentials, threatened us all a bit, went in there stared at the kid for a few minutes, asked him a few questions and now he’s just hauled him off! Care to explain what’s going on?”  
“I’m supposed to be meeting him at the Home Office in half an hour. He told me he had a suspect in custody.”  
“Yeah, MY suspect! Seriously Donovan, what is going on?”  
“Honestly Peter, at this point, you know more than I do.” Dimmock sighed in frustration before muttering a couple of colourful obscenities under his breath.  
“Listen, if I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”  
Dimmock grumbled a short reply and angrily ended the call. She sunk back into her with a sigh. Finally, a real and tangible lead. It was almost too good to be true.  
“Are you ok?” Ward asked quietly.  
“Yeah,” she answered quietly. “It sounds like it’s going to be an interesting afternoon.”  
She closed her eyes and tried to calm the sea of emotions swirling inside her.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
Sherlock’s entire body contorted in pain and panic. The detective’s whole body thrashed against the restraints, as he tried desperately to escape the flowing water. John didn’t want to look anymore; he didn’t think his soul could take the abuse.  
“Stop!” he cried pitifully.  
He had all but given up on pleading for his best friend’s life. No one was interested in what he had to say, and all it did was make him feel useless. Silent tears rolled down his face as he watched the movements slow and his friend’s body go limp. Another second later, the flow of water stopped and the room fell quiet. 

“Sherlock?”  
He felt his heart skip, when the detective didn’t respond. Frank turned the man’s head on its side, but still there was nothing. A few seconds later, he felt his arm fall free.  
“You’re up doctor,” Craig muttered, as he pushed past him and rushed over to his best friend’s side.  
The first few times they had subjected Sherlock to the waterboarding, the sessions had been relatively short. Once the water had stopped flowing, the detective would cough, choke and splutter for a minute before breathing on his own. Since then however, the sessions had grown longer and now, as he looked down at his friend’s pale face, he saw that Sherlock wasn’t breathing. 

His medical training kicked in immediately, as he quickly grabbed at his friend’s body and tried to manoeuvre him into something resembling the recovery position. A small stream of water slowly drained from the man’s mouth, kick starting his gag reflex. Within seconds, Sherlock was coughing up the foreign fluid; his eyes wide in panic as his body shook and heaved. John had just enough time to mutter a couple words of encouragement, before he was dragged away again, his arm reattached to the wall. 

He could do nothing but watch, as Frank added another plank and Craig refilled the container. Sherlock looked around the room in wild desperation, before his face twisted to one of pure agony. The back of the bench had been lifted, forcing the detective into a seated position where the muscles and bones in his legs stretched painfully. He felt sick. The cycle had started again.  
He could see that Sherlock was slowly breaking and he could feel his heart slowly breaking with him. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Dimmock -***  
Twenty minutes after having his prime suspect whisked away from underneath him, Dimmock was at Wembley Police Station, trying to coordinate with the rest of his team. Not only had Mycroft Holmes taken Jatz, but he had also left with the man’s soiled shoes, assuring him that ‘he would let him know as soon as he found anything.’ That was quickly becoming Peter’s least favourite phrase and quite frankly, he was sick to death of hearing it.  
With no name, blood or DNA sample, they had been left with very little to work with. Thankfully, they had access to the young man’s fingerprints and of course the van, which had so far proved to be more frustrating than helpful. He currently had officers scouring through the criminal database and checking missing persons for someone matching Jatz’s description, but that could take days. As much as he hated to admit it, Holmes and Donovan, were probably their best bet in getting quick results. The real question was whether it was going to be quick enough. They were already up to day three and a lot could have happened in that time. If the men were still alive, he couldn’t image them being in a very good state.  
“Sir? The suspect’s lawyer is here,” A police constable said awkwardly.  
“Which suspect?”  
“The one who’s no longer here.”  
“Shit,” Peter grumbled to himself quietly. He really didn’t have the energy for this.  
“What do you want me to tell him?”  
“I dunno,” he said dismissively, throwing his hands up into the air. “The truth I guess. Tell him that government officials took him in for questioning and that’s all we know. If he wants more information, he’ll need to contact the Home Office.”  
The constable started to close the door.  
“Wait!” he said suddenly; “he didn’t give you the suspect’s name by chance?”  
“No, he was being quite cryptic about that actually, but I’ll give it another go.”  
He muttered his thanks and the door closed quietly, leaving him once again with his depressing thoughts.


	26. Chapter 26 - Waterlogged

***- John -***  
He’d just had his wrist re-cuffed to the down pipe again, when he heard the sound of a phone. The loud, basic ringtone echoed through the room, distracting both Frank and Craig who paused to watch their leader answer the call.  
“What can you tell me?” X said calmly through the speaker, motioning at the others to continue their work. Frank was still in the process of adding another plank under Sherlock’s feet, something he was more than happy to continue with.  
“Well, where is he now?”  
The voice had lost some of it composure but remained quite steady. Whatever the man was hearing, it was obviously not good news. X’s fists clenched briefly at his side, before an annoyed growl resonated from his throat. The sound was quickly drowned out by Sherlock’s deep scream, as the back of the bench was forced back up. John had to bite his tongue and swallow down bile at the unnatural sight. He watched as Sherlock tried to compose himself, all the while trying to eaves drop on X’s conversation.  
“Get eyes on his family. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his mouth shut. He knows the rules.” X once again sounded like the poster child of cool, even if he did look slightly concerned, “and get on the blower to Cyrus, see if he can help.”

Sherlock was breathing heavily, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Large drops of water fell from his hair and onto his face, causing the detective to tremble with cold.  
“No, stay out there for now; I want to know what’s going on. Get the boys to set up a couple of lookouts, I want to know the second they start moving. If we need to relocate, I want as much time as possible, do you understand?”  
Mr X, slowly made his way over to the gasping detective, phone still in hand. The man silently listened to the callers reply, looking at Sherlock with suppressed rage and contempt.  
“I don’t care, just get it done!”  
In one swift motion, X ended the call and the phone disappeared from sight. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at his primary tormentor, his mouth curving into the slightest of grins.  
“Sounds like you’ve got a few problems,” his friend said weakly. “Things not quite going to plan?”  
He could have groaned. Why Sherlock still felt the need to antagonise the man, he would never know. Perhaps he wasn’t so far gone after all… either that or he had a death wish. 

X’s mouth twisted into a demented smile, his eyes filled with menace.  
“We’ve had a couple of setbacks.”  
“Nothing too serious I hope.”  
“Nothing we can’t handle. Of course, that puts me in an unfortunate situation, Mr Holmes,” X continued, resting his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “You see, I didn’t want to have to do this. I much prefer taking my time, but it would seem as though we may not have as long as I originally planned.”  
“What a shame,” Sherlock mumbled sarcastically, swallowing hard.  
“It really is. Frank in particular, is going to be very disappointed. He does seem to enjoy making you squeal.”  
X shot Craig a quick look, motioning down to the half-filled containers. “Make sure you fill them all up.”  
The night guard collected two of clear pitchers and moved over to the sink as X turned to face Sherlock once more.  
“We’re down to the business end Mr Holmes. I’ll give you one last chance to cooperate before things start getting serious.”  
John felt his stomach flip; a new sense of dread flooded his system. Shit, if this wasn’t already serious, he didn’t want to know what the next step looked like.  
“So, I’m going to ask you again... What. Is. His. Name?” The last four words were articulated very clearly, with emphasis placed on each syllable. Sherlock glanced over at where John was sitting and gave him a strange look, one he couldn’t identify. It was almost apologetic, but not quite. Sherlock’s weary eyes closed and he took a deep breath, before looking back at X, his gaze strong and steady.  
“Go to hell.”  
“After you.”

With that, Frank released the back of the table and dropped the cloth back into place. Within seconds, Mr X was pouring a container full water all over Sherlock’s face. The detective stayed still for all of three seconds, before survival instinct kicked in and his body began to twist and struggle. The ordeal went on far longer than it previously had. Just as Sherlock looked like he was about to lose consciousness, they would remove the water and the cloth, just long enough for the detective to take a much-needed breath.  
As time went on however, the brief respites become shorter and less frequent. After what felt like hours, Craig returned with the freshly filled containers, one of which X took eagerly. John could do little more than watch in horror, as the well-dressed man removed the blue cloth from Sherlock’s face and poured the water directly into his friend’s mouth. 

The sheer increase in volume proved too much for Sherlock, who spent the majority of his time, trying to keep the liquid from entering his body. More water was flowing into his mouth than he had time to spit out, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock eventually lost the battle, his body falling limp. Usually that would mean a stop to the interrogation, but X continued to pour. More and more of the liquid splashed against his friend’s face, flowing down all over his unmoving body.  
“Stop!” he shouted desperately, “He’s out!”  
X ignored his calls, intent on finishing the container in his hands.  
“Stop it, you’ll kill him!” He added in desperation, just as the container ran dry.  
X stared down at the unconscious man for a second, before dropping the empty vessel and turning to face him. Craig was already by his side, unlocking the handcuffs.  
“You better hope he doesn’t Doctor Watson, because if he dies, you die.”

He felt his wrists come free and in less than a second he was at Sherlock’s side, rolling him into the recovery position. This time, when the water drained from Sherlock’s mouth, he remained lifeless, his body unresponsive.  
“Sherlock?” he muttered urgently, quickly checking his friend’s pupils and pulse. “Can you hear me?”  
Still nothing.  
Without wasting another second, he rolled Sherlock onto his back and began chest compressions, counting quietly in his head.  
_Five, Six, Seven, Eight…_  
"Come on, come on!” he urged quietly, trying to ignore the tears in his eyes. This could not be happening, not now. Not when they were so close to finally getting out of there.  
_Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine, Thirty!_  
He tilted the man’s head back, opened the airway and took a deep breath, pushing the oxygen back into his friend’s empty lungs.  
“Come on Sherlock, don’t do this!”  
He had just reached the second count of nineteen, when Sherlock came back to life, vomiting water and gasping for breath. He quickly rolled his friend onto his side, watching in complete relief as Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened.  
“Oh, thank god,” he whispered quietly, resting his head against his friend’s trembling shoulder.

From somewhere in the distance he heard clapping and a second later, Craig had pulled his arms behind his back again. It was only then, that he felt the extreme pain, stab through not only his shoulder, but his chest too.  
“Well that looked easy!” X said enthusiastically, walking over to get a better view of the heaving detective “and fun!” he added almost as an afterthought. John felt his insides constrict.  
“Let’s do it again!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
The long drive back to central London had been the longest 26 minutes of Sally’s life. Even with the aid of their flashing lights, the journey had been incredibly slow and frustrating; their progress hindered by the sheer volume of traffic flowing in and out of the busy city. By the time their car pulled up outside the Home Office, Sally was completely on edge. She was so restless and anxious, that it took all of her will power, not to go running into the building like an excited six-year-old at Christmas. She didn’t particularly know why she was so enthusiastic; so far, the young man had given them absolutely nothing, but just the fact that they had dragged him in, would indicate a strong lead, something this case was severely lacking.

Mycroft Holmes was already in the interview room when they arrived, the young man sat opposite him, while several large, intimidating men, took up positions on either side. The suspect looked to be in his mid-twenties and not at all what she’d expected. He was wearing a department issued t-shirt and track pants, his feet were bare and his hands, chained were to the table. The young man shivered slightly in the cool concrete room, his arms tucked closely into his side. It was clear from the conversation, that the group had not been there long. It was also clear, that the young man was not being very cooperative.  
“You can’t do that, I know my rights!” The young man growled, pulling angrily at the chains.  
“My boy, you are a threat to National Security… You have no rights,” Mycroft replied calmly, as the two big burly men pushed the youngster further down into his seat.  
The kid looked around nervously and tried to calm himself, his arms crossing defensively in front of him. “Listen, I don’t know who you think I am, but you have it all wrong.”  
“So, you deny that you know anything about the three people who were kidnapped from the Skyridge Hotel on Tuesday night?”  
“No,” he answered, just a little too quickly.  
Mycroft leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I don’t believe you.”  
“Listen, I wasn’t even there!”  
“Then, where were you?”  
“I… I can’t remember!”  
“How very convenient.” The young man looked down at the table and remained quiet. “How about we don’t insult each other’s intelligence by pretending you don’t know why you’re here.” The suspect slowly looked up at him, an apprehensive look on his face. “I want to know where they are.”  
“I already told you, I don’t…”  
“And I told you, not to insult my intelligence!” Mycroft hollered, getting to his feet and leaning over the table threateningly. He glared down at the youngster, who started to shake, his composure slowly slipping.

“Mr Holmes.” A voice muttered quietly, as one of the burly men took a step forward, ready to intervene, if the need arose. The suspect’s head snapped up at the word, his eyes widening slightly.  
“Holmes?” he asked warily, studying the older man.  
“You’ve heard that name before, haven’t you?” Mycroft said, his voice dangerously cold.  
The young man looked away and sank further into his chair, his face having paled significantly. Sally could see the youngster’s feet tap anxiously on the tiled floor, as he tried to ignore the accusing eyes in front of him.  
“We will have your name any minute now,” Mycroft continued almost casually, sitting back in his chair. “Once that happens, we will be able to trace your records, find your friends and family. DNA analysis is being run on the two blood samples as we speak. When that is complete, we will be able to link you to one or more of the victims. Soil samples from your shoes have been sent to a lab where they will be able to trace your whereabouts over the last 24 hours. I have over twenty people tracking the route of the van using CCTV footage…” The young man’s face started to crumble, his breathing quickened.  
“We’re pulling apart your mobile phone; tracing calls, and messages, checking contacts… It is only a matter of time before we have all the information we need. What you need to ask yourself is: are you going to help or hinder? Because if those men die while you are here wasting my time, I promise, you will never again see the light of day.”  
“I… I can’t,” the younger man sniffed, wiping his eyes against his forearms. “They’ll kill me.”  
“Forgive me… but at this point in time, you should be more concerned about what I will do to you.”  
Mycroft sounded truly terrifying, his eyes were both cold and dangerous, like piercing daggers. Within a matter of seconds, the suspect looked several years’ younger, sitting red eyed, staring mournfully at the elder Holmes brother.  
“I’m sorry.”  
Mycroft took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. His jaw locked and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the youngster in both anger and distaste.  
“Take him down to the white room, he might feel differently in an hour.”  
The young man’s eyes widened in fear as he was un-cuffed and roughly dragged from the room. Despite the panicked looks, and his alarmingly pale complexion, the suspect remained silent, as he was escorted down into the depths of the Home Office building. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Greg thought he understood the phrase “living hell”, or at least he thought he had ,up until about an hour ago. Thinking back to earlier that day, he didn’t believe that things could get much worse. Sherlock was all but broken and John could barely stand without falling into a wall. There were no signs of any imminent rescue and their escape plan was moving at a snail’s pace. Life was horrible, but at least he knew what to expect. Their captors had established a routine and he didn’t realise how reassuring that was, until it unexpectedly changed. He didn’t think there could be anything worse than being trapped in a small room, your body both physically and mentally exhausted. To be injured, tired, hungry, and forced to watch, as your two friends slowly suffer… He was wrong. It turns out there was something worse – to have all that, and then be left alone. 

Greg’s nerves were completely shot, he was forever on edge. Every small sound had him frantically looking around, paranoid that someone was coming back to get him. By the time Greg did actually hear the footsteps; a part of him was actually relieved. The larger and more dominant side of him however, was still overcome with both fear and panic. It was still far too early for Sherlock’s return, so why were they coming back? What did they want? What should he do?  
The scalpel was still far from finished, should he take his chances and try to fight his way out? Frank had screamed at him to get down and stay down, should he go back to the spot where he was shot? Lie down and play dead?  
As the footsteps grew closer, he decided on a combination of the two. He carefully took the blade and slid it up his sleeve, as he crouched down to the ground, his injured leg beneath him. He hoped he would look like a wounded animal, yet still be in a position to move quickly if he needed. His leg started to throb and his heart started to race, as the night guard appeared in the doorway, slowly raising the barrel of a 9mm gun.  
“Get up and move to the corner,” the guard said calmly, motioning towards the back of the room. Deciding that he didn’t have much of an option, Greg decided to play along, making an exaggerated show of getting to his feet and stumbling to the indicated location.  
“Now get on your knees.”  
He half dropped, half fell into the corner but remained quiet, his heart still thumping wildly. The feel of hard steel against his skin, helped ground him to the here and now.  
“Put your hands behind your head and don’t move.”  
He slid his wrists further into his jacket sleeves to conceal the blade, before slowly raising his hands and resting them on the back of his head.  
“I suggest you don’t say anything either, if you know what’s good for you,” the guard said more casually, as the sound of shuffling filled the corridor. 

He watched in both overwhelming relief and horror, as John slowly appeared, struggling to support an unconscious Sherlock. He moved forward to help.  
“What did I just say?!” the guard snapped, stopping him dead in his tracks. His body flooded with fear as he quickly got back into position, thanking all gods and higher beings that Frank wasn’t the one holding the pistol. “You’re not real bright, are you copper?”  
Frank pushed past the struggling duo and fiddled with the lock, flicking him a hateful look. “If anyone tries anything, shoot him. I’ve had enough of that god damn pig.”  
Greg peeled his eyes away from his two friends to stare at the crazy man. He had never wanted to kill someone so badly before in his life. The metal suddenly felt hot against his skin, reminding him that it was there, and ready to be used. It was almost as if, it too, thirsted for blood and the cutting of flesh. How he would love to see the blade dig into the man’s chest or slide across his throat… 

A loud crash pulled him away from his morbid thoughts, and redirected his attention back to his two friends. His heart ached as he watched the doctor fall sideways down a wall, trying desperately to keep the detective off the ground.  
“Hurry up!” Frank yelled with an impatient sneer, as John struggled to his feet, a small sob escaping the man’s lips. He had known John Watson to do a great many things, but sobbing was not one of them. 

He was forced to watch, as the doctor dragged Sherlock’s lifeless body through the opened doorway and into their cell. As soon as the two men were inside, Frank quickly slammed the door closed, locking it behind them. John fell to his knees, his arms shaking as he tried to gently lower their friend’s body to the ground. Greg wanted nothing more than to rush over and help him, but he was still wary of the loaded gun pointed at his face.  
He heard John sniff and cry as he hovered around his motionless friend. For the first time it occurred to him, that Sherlock might not actually be alive. He shot the guard a questioning look but received only a small smile in return.  
“Hey!” Frank said, squatting down next to the bars. John looked up from Sherlock’s unmoving side and Frank leaned in closer. “That in there today? That’s gonna be you next, if you fuck this up. You don’t even wanna know what I have planned for that pig friend of yours in there. You hear what I’m sayin’?”  
John nodded anxiously before turning back to the detective, his hands running frantically over the younger man’s face. Satisfied, Frank slowly stood, his eyes narrowing dangerously before the two of them walked out. Taking this as his permission to move, Greg rushed to John’s side, quickly pocketing the silver tool in his trouser pocket. 

Kneeling down next to them, he couldn’t help but notice how pale both men looked. Sherlock was on his side, his body drenched in water. He moved his hand forward to check for breathing and was alarmed at how cold the detective’s skin was. Greg’s heart stopped as he waited for signs of life, feeling immense relief when he felt a tremble run through the detective’s body and a warm breath against his hand. Confident that Sherlock was alive and in no immediate danger of dying, Greg turned his attention to John. He had never seen the doctor look so shaken before.  
“What happened?” he asked quietly. John remained silent, his attention too focused on the man in front of them.  
“John?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- John -***  
He felt like he was in a dream, or moving through water. He couldn’t concentrate, his head was in a spin. Each time he looked at Sherlock, his anxiety levels soared. He wanted to help, make it all better but he didn’t know how. He felt hands on his shoulders, as he heard a voice break through the fog.  
“John?!”  
Turning his attention to the man in front of him, it took him a moment to recognise the friendly face.  
“Greg?”  
The Inspector looked worried, his eyes furrowed and quickly scanned his face.  
“Yeah mate, are you alright?”  
John instantly felt like a huge weight had been lifted. He was no longer alone, Greg was there too and they were safe again, locked away behind their metal bars, away from all the water and screaming…  
He felt his breath hitch, as he lost what little composure he had left. He closed his eyes and fell into the Inspector’s chest, his body heaving with sobs as he slowly fell apart. There was finally someone else who wanted to help the detective and not inflict more pain; and the relief was overwhelming.  
It took him a few seconds, but eventually he managed to calm himself down, and for the first time in hours, he felt himself breathe normally again.  
“What happened?” Greg asked quietly, when he had finally stopped shaking. His mind flicked through the memories, like scenes from a horror film. He honestly didn’t know where to start.  
_Legs_  
_Water_  
_Screaming_  
_Phone Call_  
_Water_  
_Legs_  
_Screaming_  
_Water_  
_Laughter_  
_Water_  
_Water_  
_Water_

He pulled himself free of Lestrade’s embrace and quickly wiped the tears from his eyes.  
“We ahhh…” he started, sniffing back the tears. “We’ve gotta um… we’ve got to get him dry and… and warm him up before he goes into shock.”  
He looked down at his unconscious friend, unable to think anymore. Just like pulling the power cord from a TV, his mind had gone blank. He felt numb.  
He sat there dumbly, as Greg took charge and dried the detective off, dressing him in his own socks and wrapping him up in his coat. John spent this time starting intently at Sherlock’s chest and face, looking for any sign that the detective had slipped away.  
His friend had been so cold, so still that last time… He had taken too long, far too long…

_John pulled harder at the metal cuffs, his entire body strained towards his friend; and still the water poured. It was a lifetime before it eventually stopped and he was finally set free. He didn’t waste any time beginning chest compressions. It was the fourth time he had performed CPR in less than an hour and each time, it was becoming harder to do, his body exhausted, weakened…_  
_Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…_

Greg had pulled the detective onto the mattress, and was positioning himself, so that the man lay against his chest. Sherlock’s head flopped limply against Lestrade’s shoulder, as the Inspector wrapped his arms tightly around their friend, providing him with much needed warmth and comfort. It was the perfect thing to do and it was exactly what Sherlock needed. It would go a long way in helping to raise the man’s body temperature and it would be easy for Greg to monitor the man’s breathing…  
John felt a cold chill run down his spine, his breath caught in his throat.  
“Careful!” he said in a panic, reaching over to pry Greg’s arms from the detective’s left side. “His ribs are broken, I… I broke some of his ribs.”  
He could feel his head start to swim, his mind suddenly swarming with the unpleasant memories. He tried to blink the thoughts away but they wouldn’t leave; he was powerless to stop them.

_“Come on doctor, I’m running out of patience!”_  
_John threw all of his weight against the detective’s chest, pushing hard against the man’s motionless heart._  
_Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…_  
_Hot tears ran down his face as he pushed harder against his friend’s chest, hearing a loud crack in response. He could feel the bone move slightly._  
_Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty._  
_One breath, two breaths, and he was back doing chest compressions, another snap indicating that he had broken yet another rib._  
_He swallowed back a sob, but continued. Regardless of any potential risks, he would never stop. To stop would mean the man’s certain death, and he wasn’t ready to accept that just yet._  
_“Come on Sherlock!” he cried desperately, stopping moments later when he felt a small convulsion._  
_His heart pounded wildly as he rolled the detective onto his side, yelling at the other men to cut him free. The detective unconsciously heaved, as his body gradually expelled the water from his lungs…_

“John!”  
Greg’s voice penetrated through the static and pulled him back into the light. He blinked a few times but couldn’t shake the image of Sherlock strapped to the bench. He could hear the man’s screams, see the man’s struggles; but it was his eyes that would haunt him the most - those panic filled eyes. 

John shuffled forward and gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, gently pulling him upright, into a protective hug. He felt an arm pull gently at his good shoulder and that was all it took to open the floodgates. Tears streamed down his cheeks, as he fell into Greg’s embrace, and he allowed himself to pretend, for just a moment, that the strong arm was that of his housemate. They remained like that for several minutes, before he felt Greg’s hand vanish. Taking comfort in Sherlock’s warmth and the rise and fall of his chest, he gently lowered the detective back down and sat up, his eyes red and raw.  
“John, what happened?” Greg asked again, softly.  
John knew he had to tell him, it wasn’t fair to keep him out of the loop. He took a deep, shaky breath and started from the beginning.


	27. Unpleasant Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the original scene that started this whole story… I’ll tell you about it in the author’s note at the end of the chapter.

***- John -***  
_The door slammed closed behind him and the sound of moaning immediately stopped. His eyes frantically darted around the room, stopping short when he saw Sherlock’s battered body. He took a couple of steps forward but firm hands quickly held him in place. He felt himself being tugged away and pushed into a fold out chair, where his right arm was then handcuffed to a downpipe._  
_“I’ll ask you again Mr Holmes…” X started._  
_“Don’t bother,” Sherlock whispered miserably._  
_“Very well… It’s time to step things up a gear.”_

_He tore his eyes away from Sherlock’s suffering face and took a moment to examine the rest of him. The detective’s arms were tied painfully behind his back, his body propped up on a long narrow bench. This in itself was bad enough, but it was what he saw next that made his blood run cold. Sherlock’s legs had been stretched out in front of him and tied firmly down to the makeshift table. A leather belt had been fastened across his lower thighs and pulled tight to keep them in place; another was secured just below the knees. His feet had been forced up on a pile of timber planks, which caused the two belts to strain, and Sherlock’s legs to bend in a very unnatural way. Feeling sick and angry, John searched for someone to glare at, receiving nothing but amused grins in return._

_He watched in silent fury, as Frank bent forward and released the back of the bench, sending it crashing towards the ground. Sherlock lay flat on his back, his eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling; his teeth clenched, his chest heaving..._

_“I wasn’t sure what was happening at first” John said miserably. “It wasn’t until Frank draped a wash cloth over his face that I knew.”_  
_He could feel his stomach twist painfully as he remembered Sherlock’s panicked expression. Greg was watching him closely, hooked on his every word. Part of him didn’t want to continue, but he forced the words out anyway._  
_“Mr X came up behind him with a container of water…”_

_“Wait, what are you doing?” he asked fearfully. He could feel his heart start to race. The two men looked up at him with wide grins before turning back to their target. Frank held Sherlock’s head steady as X upturned the container, spilling water all over the detective’s face. His friend stayed still for a couple of seconds before the man’s body tensed and his survival instinct kicked in._  
_“Stop it!” he yelled angrily, but his frantic calls went unanswered._  
_A couple of seconds later, the flow of water stopped, and Sherlock was left coughing, spluttering and gasping for breath. Frank moved down to the detective’s legs and released the pressure on the second belt, before adding another plank under his friend’s feet. While not particularly threatening by itself, the pile was already nine planks high, each one approximately 2cm thick._

“I kept thinking back to the way Sherlock had been dragging his legs around, and the way he flinched when I touched him on the thigh… It clearly wasn’t the first time… no wonder he couldn’t stand…” His voice started to crack, as both he and Greg, glanced down to look at their friend’s unmoving legs. He could only imagine what damage had been done, what possible implications there could be. There was already a high probability that his legs were fractured, but to what extent, he couldn't say. Stress fractures seemed the most likely, with possible ligament and nerve damage. Either way, Sherlock would not be walking out of here by himself. In fact, he would not be walking anywhere for quite some time.

_Frank tugged tightly on the leather straps, causing Sherlock’s face to contort in nothing short of pure agony. This expression only grew worse, as his tormentor lifted the top section of the bench back up it into place. Once again, the detective had been forced into a seated position which only increased the pressure on his damaged legs. Sherlock could no longer hold back the screams, he let the disturbing sound escape his lips for a few seconds, before he was able to bring himself back under control. The detective quickly closed his eyes, his hands clenched behind his back, his breathing laboured and fast._  
_“Uh, uh, uh,” Mr X said with a smile. “You know the rules. You watch or I’ll have them add another one.”_  
_Sherlock’s breath hitched for a second, before he opened his eyes once more, his gaze fixed straight ahead._

“It always happened like that, it was like a cycle. First, they would add a plank, and then sit him up. They would ask him another round of questions and then they would drop him back down and water-board him.”  
He could almost hear the screams even then, and it sent chills down his spine.  
“The sessions were fairly short the first few times; but as it went on, they got worse. The breaks between cycles became shorter and the waterboarding went for longer.”  
He ran his hand down Sherlock’s arm and gently took hold of his hand, his fingers instinctively searching for his friend’s pulse. Greg watched him quietly, his face paling as he pulled the detective closer.  
“It went on like that for a long time… until Mr X got a phone call.”  
“Who was it?” Greg asked gently.  
“I don’t know, but he wasn’t happy,” he replied, shaking his head. “It sounded like something had gone wrong, like they were missing someone. He was talking about setting up lookouts in case he had to relocate. I don’t know if he was talking about us or something else, but either way he seemed worried. Sherlock picked up on it right away and started to bait him.”  
Greg rolled his eyes, “off course he did.”  
“He just wouldn’t give in.” He could feel the familiar burn in his eyes, the lump slowly forming in his throat. “No matter what they said or did, he wouldn’t give in.”

_“I’m going to ask you again... What. Is. His. Name?”_  
_Sherlock’s weary eyes close. He took a deep breath, before looking back at X, eyes fixed and strong. “Go to hell.”_

“It got worse after that,” he said numbly. “They wouldn’t stop until he was unconscious… That’s where I came in…. They would release me from the handcuffs so I could get him breathing again. He’d blacked out a few times before but this was different, they just wouldn’t stop... They would kill him, and then make me bring him back.”  
The two of them stared down at Sherlock sadly, one trying to imagine, the other trying to forget.

“I’d have just enough time to mutter a couple of words to him before I was dragged away again. I had to watch Frank add another plank and Craig refill the container... His scream, it just… They just wouldn’t stop, and each time got a little worse. They drew it out longer, added more planks…”  
“I’m sorry John,” Lestrade mumbled sadly. He just nodded.  
“I thought about letting him go,” he said numbly. “I think he wanted me to… I couldn’t do it.”

“John!” Lestrade interrupted quite abruptly. “He’s stopped breathing!”  
“Roll him! Roll him!” he replied in a panic, leaning forward to pull the detective onto his side.  
Greg was right, the man wasn’t breathing. He repositioned the detective’s head, opening the airway and was relieved when Sherlock took a small breath, before throwing up a mouthful of blood.  
His heart skipped a beat, Lestrade looked horrified. “Is it his ribs?”  
He reached forward, quickly resting a hand on Sherlock’s chest, feeling reassured by the normal movement. He gently opened the man’s mouth and instantly saw the problem. His eyes closed briefly in relief.  
“John?”  
“No…” he replied, voice shaking. “No, it’s not his ribs; he’s just swallowed too much blood.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“They ah… they pulled out a tooth. He’s still unconscious, the excess blood must have run down his throat and temporary blocked his airway… he’ll be okay.”  
“Do, I even want to know?” Greg asked miserably, John shrugged but told him anyway.

_Sherlock choked back a scream as the bench was once again lifted, forcing his legs to dig into the leather belts. He watched silently as, Frank took a step back, and X filled the void, his eyes dead of emotion._  
_“What about now?” X asked Sherlock calmly, resting a hand on the man’s lower thigh. “Feel like talking?”_  
_Without warning, the detective threw his head forward and spat a substantial amount of water and phlegm on the man’s crisp white shirt._  
_“Fuck off!”_  
_X looked down at the wet patch on his stomach and slowly smiled. “You’re going to regret that” he said coldly, pulling a handkerchief out to mop up the mess. “Put him back down,” X ordered sharply, as he moved over to a small table in the back corner of the room._  
_The sight of the instruments made his blood run cold. It was just like the table back in that other room. Suddenly his shoulder screamed with pain, reminding him of the drill and the growing infection. He couldn’t help but shiver when he saw X return with a set of pliers in his hands._  
_Sherlock didn’t bother struggling against the hands but kept his mouth firmly shut; his eye’s fixed on an imaginary spot on the ceiling._  
_“I see you’ve chosen the hard way, yet again,” X said coldly, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s jaw. Frank stepped in to help pry it open, while Craig pushed down on his two knees. Sherlock managed to resist the scream for only a moment, before he gave into the pain, allowing Frank to hold his mouth open, while X positioned the pliers._  
_“When are you going to learn Mr Holmes? I always get what I want. You will tell me what I want to know, it’s only a matter of time.”_

“They just ripped it out…” he said sadly. “He was trying so hard not to scream.”  
He swallowed back the tears and tried to shake the image from his head. Greg looked pale, his words having once again, painted a rather horrific picture.  
“He’ll be okay once we stop the bleeding,” he said reassuringly, reaching over to collect a piece of the damp cloth. He slowly rose to his feet and gave it a quick wash before sinking back to his knees, both surprised and delighted to see a sliver of Sherlock’s green-blue eyes.

“Hey!” he said quietly to the younger man, trying to smile. “You with us?”  
Sherlock’s eyes were barely open, his gaze unfocused. “Sherlock?” he tried again, a little louder. “Can you hear me?”  
The detective made a gurgled groan, and tried to pull free of Greg’s protective arms. John quickly moved forward, running his hand through the man’s hair, trying to calm him down.  
“Sshhhh Sherlock, it’s ok now, you’re safe.”  
“Is he alright?” Greg asked nervously, his head trying to bend forward to catch a glimpse of the man’s face.  
“I think, he’s still mainly out of it,” he replied, scrunching up the small bit of fabric and gently placing a hand on the detective’s shoulder.  
“Sherlock?” he tried again, trying to get the younger man’s attention. “I’m just going to put this in your mouth, to stop the bleeding ok?” He said slowly, holding up the swab of material so his friend could see. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
Sherlock stared blankly, his eye’s unfocused. Had he even heard him? John slowly leaned forward and gently opened the man’s mouth. It only took a second before the detective started to panic. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
Water gushed around his feet as he hurried down the passageway. A light flickered on in the distance, throwing sinister shadows across the halls around him. He ran his bloodied hands along the wall, searching desperately for an open doorway, a way to escape the flooding corridor. His heart beat wildly, as the sound of yet another siren rang out just behind him. He lurched forward, his legs slamming into a piece of fallen debris, sending him sprawling face first into the cold water. Ignoring the sharp pain in his shins, he quickly scrambled to his feet, desperately searching for the stairway. He needed to get off this level before the floor was flooded again. The lights flickered on for a moment and he saw his escape, but there would not be enough time for him to get there. The roar of the water was getting louder, as it came crashing around the corner. His heart thumped painfully as he stumbled forward, running as fast as he could through the already knee-deep water. He wasn’t going to make it, there wasn’t enough time…

A wall of water came crashing into his back, throwing him forward into the cold, wet darkness. He struggled to stand but his feet were swept away in the powerful stream, his body tumbling uncontrollably through the unforgiving wave. He threw his hands out, trying desperately to find something to hold on to, but there was nothing there. He tried to take a breath but was met with murky liquid. It was too dark, he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t find his bearings. His mind became clouded with fear as the water washed over his head. Lungs burning, he desperately tried to swim upwards, realising he no longer knew which way was up or down. He reached forward with his arms, eyes squinting through the dark liquid but still found no sign of escape, no light. He took a deep breath and felt the water flow into his lungs, turning his word black.  
Maybe this time he could rest…

He felt warm arms turn him onto his side as he coughed the water from his body. Opening his eyes, he saw the water pooled on the floor beneath him as he struggled to catch his breath. He could hear John’s encouraging words, the comforting hands at his shoulder and head before they were pulled away, leaving him cold and scared. He could feel the straps around his leg being loosened and he quickly decided to leave.  
He woke up a second later, on the flooded, timber floor of his mind palace. He could see the light in the distance, slowly flicker and die, leaving him in complete darkness. He quickly scrambled to his feet and started looking for a way to escape. The water was coming; he could hear it drowning out the scream of the sirens as it rushed towards him. He raced forward, but it was no use. Within seconds, the deadly wave was upon him, dragging him down.  
He closed his eyes and opened them to a downpour of water, hitting his face. He tried to move away from the onslaught but found that he couldn’t; firm hands gripped his head tightly. Menacing figures leaned over him, holding him down; their presence both dark and disturbing. He struggled against the restraints, his heart beating wildly as the water roared in his eyes and ears, forcing itself down his throat and into his lungs. He couldn’t escape, not even to his mind palace. There too, he would feel the burn; feel the pain and the panic. There was nothing he could do to stop it…

“Sherlock?”  
Warm hands on his arm and chest, warm splash against his neck. The voices were distant and mumbled and he couldn’t understand them. He slowly opened his eyes but saw very little, a blurred face came down to meet his. It was saying something and it sounded concerned but he couldn’t understand it. His world crumbled to darkness…

He could feel warmth all around him, he was on something soft. Panicked voices floated around his head as gentle hands touched his neck and chest. He was on his side, his body coughing up something warm and metallic. He felt scared but didn’t know why, nothing made sense. He gradually opened his eyes to John’s blurry face. A look of relief passed over it and he felt his stomach clench in panic and pain. Not again.  
He tried to break free of the restraints but found himself too weak. Something warm and firm held him in place as something cool, ran across his head.  
“Sshhhh Sherlock, it’s ok now, you’re safe.” It was John’s voice and he wanted to trust it but he couldn’t. He no longer knew what was real or not. He could not tell the difference between dream and nightmare, memory and reality, it all just melded together.  
“Sherlock? I’m just going to put this in your mouth, to stop the bleeding ok? I’m not going to hurt you.”  
It sounded like John, but then again so did all the others. He felt hands on his face, gently pulling his lips apart and he started to panic. This had happened before.  
He tried to pull away, but felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. He heard voices cry out, but he could no longer tell who they belonged too, his brain cloudy with fear. He closed his eyes and shut out the noises, letting the darkness consume him. When he woke again, he found himself sprawled out on a splintered timber staircase, water lapping at his feet. The emergency lighting flickered around him, as he quickly scrambled forward, pulling himself up the broken balustrade and hauling himself to his feet. He stumbled forward, running as fast as he could. He had to move quickly, he had to make it to higher ground…

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Lestrade’s stomach dropped as he watched and felt the younger man try to twist free of his arms. For someone who was usually so strong and active, Sherlock was disturbingly weak. Although he couldn’t see the man’s face, it was obvious that he was still fairly out of it; his body reacting to the strange situation with both fear and panic. It gave Greg an insight into the detective’s state of mind, which did nothing but make him feel sick.  
Sherlock was one of the greatest men he had ever known. His brain worked like a giant computer, analysing and storing large quantities of facts and figures. He could walk into a crowded room, and within seconds, tell you ever person’s life story, including what they had for breakfast. He was brilliant, his mind was brilliant, so to see him reverted to that kind of state was truly heart breaking. 

With his mind somewhat occupied, the man in question suddenly lurched forward and slipped from his grip, falling awkwardly onto the ground with a loud, pain filled cry.  
“Careful!” John called worryingly, as the two of them gently scooped the detective back up, his eyes now closed and his body still. He instantly felt a wave of terror race through him, seconds before he felt the reassuring movement against his chest.  
“Just sleeping, I think,” John said quietly, settling back on to the ground.  
“Good,” he replied, “he needs it.”  
He ran his hands through Sherlock’s damp curls and looked up at the doctor, noticing immediately the tremble which ran through the man’s left arm.  
Ever since the two of them had returned, he could see it getting worse. The last few hours had clearly taken their toll on the former soldier; he looked older somehow, damaged. His eyes held a strange expression, like a part of his soul had been wounded. The more he talked about their time away, the worse it got. His expression was vague and far away.

“So how come we’re all in here together?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Was that you’re doing?”  
“Yeah,” John replied quietly, his eyes glazing over. “He had taken in so much water that last time; I was worried about secondary drowning. It took a lot of convincing but eventua…”  
John stopped mid-sentence and his eyes widened in horror.  
“What?”  
“They shot you!” His voice sounded so sad, so broken, it made him pause.  
“Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m fine.” he said quickly, trying to reassure the man with a friendly smile.  
“Oh my God,” John whispered incredulously, his face turning several shades of white. “I’m so sorry Greg, I’m so sorry, I just… Sherlock, he… and I, I just…”  
Beads of sweat ran down John’s pale face, as shivers tore through the man’s body.  
“It’s fine, really I’m okay, just forget it.”  
“No, I…” John started, freezing when he saw the bloodied bandage on his leg. “Is that where it hit you? Let me see!”  
“John, it’s fine.”

The doctor’s left arm hung limply and his whole body sagged sideways to compensate. The man looked like he should be in a lot of pain and yet, John didn’t seem to notice.  
“Seriously…” Greg tried again, his words unheard.  
John scrambled to his feet and grabbed what remained of the first aid kit, sending the contents scattering all over the floor. The man bent down and picked up the bar of soap and rushed over to the sink, frantically scrubbing at his shaking hands.  
“John.” The doctor appeared almost manic, his eyes wide in fear.  
“John! Look at me!”  
The authoritative tone made all the difference, and in less than a second, the soldier had stopped. “Look at me” he repeated gently. The doctor slowly turned. “I’m fine, I promise.” John breathed heavily, his eyes looked glassy with fever. “I’m fine… Sherlock’s fine… he’s alive and he’s breathing… You did it, you saved him…”  
“I know,” the doctor said sadly, looking away. “I just wish I could have done more.”  
He felt like someone had just ripped his heart out and put it through a mincer. What was he supposed to say to that?  
“Listen,” he began quietly, “the scalpel is almost finished; we’ll be able to get out of here tonight.” John looked back at him hopefully, as if trying to gage his authenticity. “Only a few more hours and we can all leave this place. He’ll be ok; we’ll get him out of here.”  
John’s face dropped once more, his shoulders sagged forward in defeat.  
“Greg… he can’t walk.”  
It was barely a whisper but he heard it all the same. He looked down at the unconscious man in his arms and felt unbelievable sorrow.  
“I know” he replied sadly. “I’ll figure something out.”  
John slowly began to sway, a look of pain in his eyes.  
“Hey, why don’t you sit down for a bit, huh? Get some rest?” He was trying to sound casual, but he couldn’t help the fear growing inside of him. He had a feeling that John was going to crash and it looked like it was going to be sooner rather than later. He carefully lifted Sherlock’s shoulders and eased his way out from underneath him, gently lowering the limp body back down to the mattress.  
“No, I’m… ‘m fine.” John mumbled quietly, his voice beginning to slur.  
Lestrade slowly stood and took a small step forward.  
“How about you take over from me then? You can keep Sherlock warm,” he said encouragingly. “I need to get back to work anyway.”  
The doctor turned his head slightly to stare at his best friend. He stayed like that for almost 30 seconds, before looking up at him again, his eyes unfocused.  
“Greg?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I don’t feel well,” the doctor muttered before falling to the ground like a stone.  
“Shit!” he cried, as he rushed forward just in time to save John’s head from smashing into the concrete.  
“John?” He shook the man gently, but received no response. “John!” He tried slapping at his face, but there was still no reaction.  
“Shit!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
Sherlock continued to stumble his way past the fallen pictures and damaged walls. The water was only ankle deep but it was very cold, and sent fierce shivers down his spine. Turning the corner, he finally found what he was looking for - a big heavy door with a sheet of paper stuck to the front. Written on the paper, in a child’s scribbled hand was a warning: Keep Out!  
Ignoring the note, Sherlock pushed through the doorway and saw seventeen years of his life come flooding back. The unkept bed, his very first microscope, the collection of crime books, his pirate sword. It was all exactly how he remembered it, even down to the scorch marks on the wall. In the middle of all the chaos lay his beloved pet dog, sprawled lazily across the carpeted floor.  
A big smile appeared on his face as he took an eager step towards his canine friend. Three paces away, he felt himself freeze and a feeling of dread washed over him. The Irish Settler’s coat was dripping wet, his eyes closed and unmoving.  
Sherlock’s heart thumped painfully, as he looked closely for signs of life. He didn’t want to move any closer, didn’t want to face the truth. He could not bear the thought of losing the animal again, not like this; not without saying goodbye. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Sherlock tried to summon the courage to speak.  
“Redbeard?”  
His voice was croaky and thick with emotion, but that was all it took. In less than a second, the dog raised his head, wagged its tail and quickly scrambled to his feet. Overcome with relief, Sherlock ran over and threw his arms around the dog’s neck, burying his head into the soft fur.  
“Hey boy!”  
He was rewarded with a large wet tongue across his face, as Redbeard made his happiness known. The feeling was contagious, and before he knew it, Sherlock felt a sense of calm wash over him. With one look into those big brown eyes, the water and the pain were forgotten.  
He was safe in this room, he was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those of you wondering how on Earth I came up with such a sick and twisted story idea, I shall quickly explain. I was doing some research on medieval torture devices for a History class (it was part of the curriculum) and accidently stumbled across some modern torture devices used today (specifically China – It was seriously very disturbing and completely sick and immoral). The one which caught my attention though was something called the tiger board. It is the process of slowly breaking someone’s legs by tying them to a bench and forcing bricks under their feet. That was where the whole idea started really. Put the three of them in a cell and have John and Lestrade comfort a tortured Sherlock. Who would have thought that one picture would sprout a 40 odd chapter story.  
> On a side note, if you want to have a better idea of what I have put Sherlock through the last couple of chapters and why his legs are so stuffed, then you can google Tiger board and see for yourself. Just beware because some of the stuff you way find is very graphic and highly disturbing. You will not be able to un-see it… seriously.


	28. Brother Mine

***- Lestrade -***  
“Damn it John!” He growled angrily, as he ripped at the blood-soaked bandages.  
The doctor’s shoulder was bleeding again and by the look of it, had been for some time. “What’s the use of being a doctor if you can’t look after yourself?!”  
It wasn’t a big mystery as to why John had collapsed, deep down he knew it was going to happen. What he hadn’t expected, was that it would happen in such a dramatic and clichéd way. Neither was he expecting to see the bloody mess he discovered, while trying to remove the man’s jacket. It shouldn’t have been a surprise really; after all he had been performing CPR, and had just carried Sherlock god knows how far… It shouldn’t have been a surprise, yet it was.

As Greg peeled the final bandage away from the entrance wound, he saw a small line of blood run down John’s side. Returning the soiled pad, he pressed down hard against the mangled flesh, encountering very little resistance. John’s pale, sweat covered face remained unmoving, unaware of the strife he had gotten himself into. Just as he thought that things couldn’t get any worse, Greg heard a choking sound behind him. Turning his head, he saw Sherlock’s body convulsing, as the unconscious man tried to expel whatever liquid was causing him grief.  
“Oh, not you too!” he cried desperately, as he swivelled around on his hands and knees and pulled the detective back into the recovery position. After a few moments, Sherlock’s breathing returned to normal, and a few moments after that, Greg’s did too.  
He didn’t know if he could handle this anymore. This was not how things were supposed to happen.  
He leaned down next to Sherlock’s face, rested his forehead on the man’s wet hair, and wrapped his hand gently around his neck.  
“Don’t do that again,” he ordered, near tears. “I am trying to help John, and you’re not helping.”  
Sitting up, he quickly checked the detective over once more and rearranged his jacket, before moving back to John who remained motionless. Pressing his weight against the doctor’s shoulder, he took a deep breath and slowly closed his eyes.

His heart was racing. All the muscles in his shoulders and stomach clenched painfully. He could hear the air flow in and out of his lungs, a coarse and worn sound which echoed around his head, making it spin. As much as he wanted to fall apart, he knew he couldn’t. Despite their wishes and optimistic thinking, no one was coming to get them. With John and Sherlock both out of action, he was the only one left who could get them out; he had to push on. There would be plenty of time to have his melt down later, but for now, he needed to take control.  
He took a couple of deep breathes and forced his mind to stop. Pushing the negative thoughts away, he focused on what he needed to do; and mentally made a list. It read as follows:  
1\. Tend to John - stop the bleeding, re-evaluate the wound and clean if necessary. Apply new bandages, make him comfortable.  
2\. Check on Sherlock - confirm he has no major wounds that need addressing, make sure he is warm and still breathing.  
3\. Work on scalpel - Get the damn thing finished and release the remaining screws.  
4\. Wake up the others and get the hell out of there.  
5\. Find the nearest phone and call for help.  
6\. Get rescued and hailed a hero.  
7\. Receive a load of pain killers.  
8\. Sleep for the next week.

The last two in particular, were very appealing. A dull pain had begun to radiate from his leg wound; however, it was his broken fingers which caused him the most grief. All the effort John had put in to straightening and splinting the broken digits, had now been completely undone. They stuck out in strange angles and the swelling had made it near impossible to bend either of them in any way. There was nothing he could do about it of course; he needed both his hands to tender aid, and more importantly, to get them out.  
_One step at a time._  
Greg took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes, a new sense of determination burning within. He looked down at his blood-stained hands, and for the first time, felt calm. He knew what he had to do. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
Sally had no idea where they had taken their suspect, or what they had done to him. Like many other things on the case, she was not privy to that information. What she did find out, was almost everything else there was to know about the young man. They had spent the last hour sifting through various records and making phone calls, until they had the suspect’s whole life story laid out on the desk in front of them.  
Mycroft Holmes had the people around him, working like a well-oiled machine. Each piece of evidence he picked up, led to some new revelation, which would in turn, direct them to a new line of inquiry. She could finally see where Sherlock got his skills from, but unlike the detective, Mycroft Holmes was all business. He didn’t feel the need to be dramatic or show off, like his younger brother did. He would provide the information readily and explain things with only mild agitation. One thing she did notice, however, was just how quiet Mycroft was compared to his brother. Something that only seemed to get worse as more time went by. 

Within ten minutes, the young man was dragged back into the interview room. Sally wasn’t sure what she expected to see - a black eye or a split lip perhaps; but from a distance, the man looked fine. On closer inspection, however, she could see that his face was drawn, small creases around his brow showed pain and discomfort. His skin looked abnormally pale and Sally could just make out the occasional tremble which ran through the younger man’s body.  
“What did you do to him?” she said, looking between Holmes and Ward  
Mycroft’s eyes continued to stare through the one-way glass, his gaze fixed on the younger man, like a lion hunting its prey.  
“Gave him a reason to start cooperating.”  
With that, Mycroft suddenly turned and made his way into the interview room, slamming the door closed behind him. The young man jumped.

“Welcome back” Mycroft said, taking the only other seat in the room, his tone both cold and calm. “I trust you’re enjoying your stay.”  
Their suspect remained abnormally quiet, his eyes downcast to avoid any eye contact.  
Rocking forward on his chair, Mycroft gave the young man a fake smile before continuing. “Let’s try this again. We have started collecting information; it’s only a matter of time before we know what happened.”  
“You don’t know anything.”  
Mycroft’s face grew serious, only a hint of his smile remained.  
“Timothy Jackson,” he started, knowingly. “Born February 9th, 1991.” The young man’s face dropped and turned an alarming shade of grey. “Last known residence was with your parents, a Margaret and Luke Jackson, currently residing at 54 Craigmore Road, Stratford.” Jatz began to shake, his breathing quickened. “You have an older brother, Mark Jackson, currently serving a 15-year sentence at Pentoville Prision for drug trafficking… and then there’s you, following in his footsteps… Your parents must be so proud.”  
“Shut up!” the young man spat venomously, finding a spark of courage. “You don’t know anything about me!”  
“Oh, on the contrary,” Mycroft continued, “It would appear you had quite a privileged upbringing. You attended Bancroft’s Independent School for five years where you graduated with above average results. Your parents are both professional people who earn well over the minimum wage. Neither have any history of criminal activity, abuse or addiction, and yet somehow, they’ve managed to raise two criminals… How exactly does that happen?”  
“Screw you!”  
“I told you it would only be a matter of time. The clock is ticking, so we’ll try again… either give me some answers, or you will see what facilities this establishment really has to offer. Do yourself a favour; do not make me your enemy.”  
Shaking his head, Jatz pushed back in his seat, trying to put distance between the two of them. “You can’t do that.”  
“Oh Timothy, you forget…” Mycroft started, leaning forward menacingly. “I can, I have and I will.”  
Tim stared at him in dismay, his eyes flicked around the room in a panic as if expecting the dark forces to suddenly descend.  
“What do you want?”  
Mycroft leaned in further, his eyes narrowing angrily.  
“I want to know where my brother is.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Greg sat back on his heels and took a moment to appreciate his handiwork. Despite the thorough cleaning of John’s shoulder, the man remained unconscious, a look of pain permanently etched into his pale face. The doctor’s body trembled with fever, while small drops of sweat slowly pooled at his hairline.  
Greg placed a damp rag on his friend’s face and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing, however he didn’t need to be a doctor to know that the man’s breathing was too shallow, his pulse too fast. Pushing away any thoughts of sentiment, he mentally checked another item off his list before moving over to Sherlock.  
It only took a few minutes for Greg to get a full appreciation of what had been done to the great detective. It seemed that everywhere he looked; he found some evidence of abuse. So frequent they were in number, and so varied in severity, he found it difficult to remain detached. Swallowing down the rising bile, he took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.  
_One step at a time._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
A ten year old Sherlock, leaped from his bed to the top of his dresser, pulling out a red t-shirt and tying it around his head. With his bandana in place, he drew his wooden sword from his belt and took a few practice swings before jumping onto his desk.  
_“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”_  
He jumped down to the floor and began a sword fight with an imaginary foe, ducking and weaving the invisible attack. Redbeard barked playfully, chasing around after him.  
_“Drink and the devil had done the rest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”_  
“What are you doing?”  
Quickly turning his head, he saw Mycroft lean against the wall by his bedroom door, his teenage form clearly unimpressed.  
“Avast!” he said in surprise, pointing his sword in his brother’s direction. “How dare ye trespass on me ship! Leave now or ye be dancin’ the hempen jig.”  
Unswayed by the idle threat, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We need to talk.”  
“There will be no parley for a landlubber like you! Leave this ship now, or I’ll see ye to Davy Jones me self!”  
“Sherlock!” Mycroft tried again, “what are you doing?”  
The young boy dropped his sword in annoyance, his character broken.  
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m playing with Redbeard, get out!” He picked up one of his scattered shoes and threw it towards his brother, smiling in amusement when Mycroft quickly ducked out of sight. Not wanting his brother’s appearance to interrupt his game, Sherlock rolled onto his bed, and sat upright on his knees. Without missing a beat, the young boy continued.  
_“The mate was fixed by the bosun’s pike. The bosun brained with a marlinspike.”_  
Sherlock sang, thrusting his wooden sword into one of his pillows.  
_“And cookey’s throat was marked belike.” He continued, wrapping his hands tightly around another, before tossing them both to the ground. “It had been gripped by fingers ten.”_

Mycroft reappeared in the doorway. No longer in teenage form. The suited man stood with his arms crossed as he watched his younger brother violently slaughter a number of cushions.  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried again, but the boy ignored him.  
_“And there they lay, all good dead men. Like break o’day in a boozing ken.”_  
He slipped the sword into his leather belt and leaped once again to his dresser, looking down at the massacre of pillows strewn across the floor below - the bodies of his treacherous crew.  
_“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”_  
He finished, jumping onto his bed and falling to his back. Redbeard leaned in and eagerly licked his face and Sherlock squealed in laugher. 

“It always was a stupid song,” Mycroft started thoughtfully, taking a few steps forward. “A stupid song for a stupid boy.”  
“I’m not stupid Mycroft, Get out!” Sherlock said angrily, sitting up and glaring at the man, seemingly un-phased by his sudden and unexplained growth.  
“Then tell me, where are you?”  
“In my bedroom.”  
“No, where are you?” He was confused. Of course he was in his room, where else would he be? What’s the last thing you remember?”  
Sherlock stopped. He couldn’t explain why but he instantly felt uneasy, like something dangerous was lurking in the shadows. He looked around nervously but saw nothing which should cause him concern. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember how he got there, or what he was doing beforehand. It was as if he had always been in this room, sword in hand, playing pirate with Redbeard.  
“I don’t know.”  
Mycroft took another step forward, “Well think.”  
The young boy closed his eyes and instantly felt like he was out of air. Something cold and dark pressed down on him, trying to force its way into his lungs. His eyes flew open, wide in fear, as he tried to quell the rising sense of panic. Redbeard jumped up next to him and nudged his arm as Sherlock tried to make sense of what had just happened.  
“Water,” he said quietly.  
“Exactly.” 

Sherlock sat silently, both confused and nervous, while Mycroft slowly moved around the room, his voice calm and unwavering.  
“T’was a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead…”  
He wasn’t sure why, but Mycroft’s spoken rendition of the words, sent a cold shiver down his spine. The song had suddenly lost its enjoyment and instead made his stomach curl.  
“Or a yawning hole, in a battered head…”  
“Stop it,” he said in a panic, unsure why his brother’s words were affecting him so. He was finding it difficult to breath, like a great weight pushed against him.  
“And there they lay, aye, damn my eyes…”  
His heart fluttered in a panic, as he looked down at the pile of scattered pillows on the floor around him. No longer were they the bodies of faceless pirates; they were the bodies of a grey-haired Detective Inspector, and a badly dressed Doctor. They stared at him with their glassy eyes, one with a bullet through his head, the other with a deep cut across his neck.  
“Looking up at paradise…”  
He felt his blood run cold as his breath stuck in his throat. “John” he whispered quietly, “Lestrade.”  
“All souls bound just contrariwise…”  
The little boy disappeared and Sherlock found himself sitting on his old childhood bed, his beloved dog sitting quietly beside him. The scattered pillows and wooden sword were all gone, but the images lingered, etched deep into his brain.  
He remembered.  
He remembered the water and the little room, he remembered the cell and the horrendous pain...  
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.” Sherlock finished quietly. 

“It’s time to wake up now, brother mine.”  
He looked up at his brother, a look of hurt on his face. Why would he do that to him? Why pull him out of such a happy place and time, only to deliver him to hell?  
“Remember what’s truly at stake, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him gently as he turned away.  
For once Sherlock didn’t argue. He slowly got to his feet and made his way to the door, stopping only once he had reached the threshold. His heart pounded painfully, he didn’t want to go; he wanted to stay there, where it was safe. He was about to turn around when he felt Mycroft by his side, his words soft and calm.  
“You can’t hide in here forever.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before pulling open the door and stepping through…

The first thing he became aware of was the pain. A constant and agonising ache assaulted both his legs and shoulders, while a sharp shooting pain attacked his chest with every breath. He groaned deeply and tried to stop the tears from forming. He could hear scrapping nearby and eventually deduced that he was likely back in the cells. He was still cold, but not uncomfortably so. There was something warm and heavy draped over him and he was lying on his side on something soft. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw someone sitting on the ground next to him, eyes deep in concentration.  
“L’strade?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
He was deep in concentration when he heard it, a weak and tired voice mutter his name. His head shot around just in time to see Sherlock’s face screw up in agony, as he was overcome with a rather sever coughing fit. Dropping the small tool, Greg hurried over to the detective and helped him sit up. The coughing spell went on for close to a minute, and in the end left the detective gasping for breath and clutching at his chest.  
“Hey,” he said gently, adjusting the jacket covering his friend, “you with me?”  
Sherlock glanced over at him, blinking several times as if he were dreaming. “Y’r ok.”  
It was whispered so quietly, that Greg was unsure whether it was meant as a question or statement, either way it made him smile.  
“Yeah, I’m okay, how are you going?”  
Sherlock looked around the room in a slight panic.  
“Where’s Jo’n?”  
“He’s just here,” he said, turning to look over towards John’s prone figure. “He’s just sleeping.”  
Sherlock sighed in relief as he scanned the man’s body. After several moments, his eyes narrowed.  
“Sleeping?”  
“Alright, he dropped unconscious shortly after you did your massive freak-out. His shoulder opened back up again and he lost a lot of blood. His fever’s through the roof, but he’s hanging in there.”  
There was no use sugar-coating it for the detective - he would not appreciate it and he would likely figure it all out anyway. Despite Sherlock’s impassive face, Greg could tell he was worried.  
“What about you? You didn’t answer my question, how are you? You were out of it, last time. You scared us.”  
“Mmmm,” Sherlock started slowly. “Things were… rattled” he said, motioning to his head. “I’m fine now.”  
“Yeah you look it,” he said sarcastically. Sherlock remained silent, his face screwed up and pale as another wave of pain coursed through him. It almost hurt just to watch…

“Listen, John told me what happened…” Greg said gently, placing his hand on his friend’s arm. Sherlock looked away, his breath catching in his chest. “You don’t’ have to pretend that you’re okay. Given the circumstances, no one would expect you to be.”  
He didn’t get a response, but in all honesty, he wasn’t expecting one.  
“Listen, I’ll have this finished in a couple of hours. There will be plenty of time for us to get out of here. We’ll all be at a hospital before you know it and we’ll have all these bastards, either behind bars or in the morgue!”  
Sherlock remained silent, but he thought he saw a brief smile cross the man’s face.  
“Just get some rest, ok” he said quietly, before patting the man’s arm and pulling himself away.  
It wasn’t long at all until the pained noises slowly faded and Sherlock’s breathing evened out. The man was once again asleep and for the detective’s sake, Greg hoped he remained that way.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Donovan -***  
“This is ridiculous; these guys have us running circlers all over North London!”  
Sally could hear the anger and frustration in the Detective Inspector’s voice, as she called in with yet another update.  
Mycroft Holmes had managed to break down the young man’s story, to the point where he confessed to knowing about the kidnapping; but insisted he had no direct involvement in the abduction or knew where they were being held. The young man insisted that the blood was as a result of an earlier fist fight with a fellow dealer and that he had picked up the van under instructions from a man only known to him as ‘X’, from an old run-down area of Edgware. Dimmock currently had members of both Scotland Yard and local police, out scouring several locations including Stratford, Wembley and now Edgware. Somehow this case was getting even more confusing than it had been 24 hours ago.  
“Did he give an exact location as to where we need to be looking?” Peter asked annoyingly  
“Just that it was an abandoned building out by the M1.”  
Dimmock gave an irritated sigh. “That doesn’t really narrow it down much.”  
Sally understood his frustration all too well. Despite his insistences, Timothy (a.k.a Jatz) was being infuriatingly vague, even as the threat of black bags and white rooms were thrown at him.

“I’m almost at his parent’s place now,” Peter said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you soon.” A second later the line went dead, and Sally went back to watching Mycroft Holmes stare down the suspect. It seemed that for the moment, the fight was at a standstill. With no evidence to suggest that Tim was lying, they were back to playing the waiting game.  
Mycroft eventually got to his feet and met her and Ward a moment later in the small adjourning room.  
“I want you to lower the temperature in the room by ten degrees,” he told the agent briefly. With a quick nod, Ward disappeared, leaving the two of them alone.  
“D.I. Dimmock is out talking to the parents. He also has half the police force out in Edgeware looking for them.” She felt as though she needed to reassure the man. He looked downcast and had said very little since joining her. “If there’s anything out there, we’ll find it.”  
The older Holmes brother turned to face her, his eyes furrowed and his jaw clenched.  
“Have Detector Inspector Dimmock detain Timothy Jackson’s parents. I want them here within the hour.”  
Although the order made her feel uneasy, she didn’t question it. Sally was starting to see just how powerful and dangerous, Mycroft Holmes could be; and if she was being honest with herself, it scared her. She got out her phone again and made the call.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Filing down the scalpel was difficult; not just physically but emotionally too. He had slowly trained himself to ignore the pained groans and haggard breathing coming from either side of him. As long as the sounds were present, he had nothing to worry about and no need to divert his attention.  
The physical side of the task was just as taxing. His knuckles were scraped raw, and the soft flesh around his thumb was covered in cuts from the sharp blade. More than anything, it was the constant monotonous scraping sound that dug into him more than the blade did. It seeped into his consciousness and was slowly driving him crazy.  
Past due for a break, Greg climbed awkwardly to his feet and limped slowly over to the bars, trying to ignore the sharp sting in his leg. Placing the tool against the grooves in the screw, he couldn’t help but smile. For the first time since the toothbrush, he could finally see his work pay off. He was almost there.

His celebration was cut short with a sudden yelp, a panicked cry emanating from John’s direction. Turning around, he could see the doctor’s entire body twitch. His head tossing from side to side as he cried out in his sleep. Lestrade raced over to check on him, noting almost immediately how much the doctor’s temperature had risen.  
“It’s okay John,” he called softly, placing a gentle hand on the man’s forehead.  
It was no surprise that John had a fever, the infection in his shoulder was causing all sorts of problems. It worried him, how much heat he could feel radiating from the man’s body. His temperature was way too high.  
Gathering a few rags, he made his way over to the sink and doused them in water, returning seconds later to wipe the sweat and grime from his friend’s face. John muttered restlessly in his sleep, his breathing once again slowing with Greg’s whispered words.  
Eventually the noises stopped and he went back to work, but not before placing a damp rag on his friend’s brow, another around his neck. With any luck, it would provide some extra comfort to the sleeping man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering, yes that is a real pirate shanty. It goes on for many verses but I think these bits work best with the story.  
> Pirate Glossary:  
> Dance the hempen jig – to hang someone.  
> Parley – A conversation between opposing sides to discuss a halt to fighting or other related matters.  
> Landlubber – Big, slow, clumsy person, who is not very skilled or easy with ship life.


	29. Bad Dreams

***- Dimmock -***  
To say Mr and Mrs Jackson were confused and annoyed, by their sudden detainment was an understatement. He wasn’t entirely sure why he needed to do it in the first place, but clearly the Home Office knew more than they were letting on. Sitting in the interview room of the nearest police station, Margaret and Luke Jackson anxiously waited for someone to explain what was going on. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

Deciding it was about time that he put these two parents out of their misery, he grabbed the pile of notes and files, Sally had faxed him and made his way into the interview room, carefully closing the door behind him.  
“What is this about?” Margaret Jackson asked angrily. “We were expecting guests.”  
“I’m sorry to have disrupted your evening plans ma’am but I need to ask you a few questions about your son.”  
Mr Jackson sighed deeply, his teeth clenched in anger. “What has he done now?”  
His tone suggested that this was not the first time that one of their son’s extracurricular activities had disrupted their evening plans. His body language suggested that he didn’t even care anymore, as though his son had disappointed him too many times.  
“Do you know where your son was between 11pm and 1am Tuesday night?”  
“Mark is in prison, you would need to ask them” Luke Jackson said dismissively. Peter was taken aback.  
“No, your other son, Timothy Jackson.”  
“Tim? Why?” Both parents looked equally shocked and confused.  
“Please, just answer the question.”  
“Tim hasn’t lived with us for over six months. He’s living with a friend of his in Shoreditch.”  
“What’s going on?” Mrs Jackson asked, clearly upset. Ignoring the woman’s growing concern, Dimmock continued, asking questions about their son’s work history, friends and criminal history. 

On paper, their son seemed like the perfect kid and the idea that he may have somehow got tied up in his older brother’s problems, was truly heartbreaking for the middle-aged couple who had truly believed that they still had one good seed. To hear that he may be implicated in the abduction of three men was a complete shock. They had always seen their younger son as the trustworthy and reliable offspring, who had never caused them any real grief.  
“You should talk to that deadbeat brother of his. He was always trying to drag poor Timmy along on one of his wild schemes. If Tim is in some kind of trouble, I guarantee Mark is somehow involved.”  
Thanking the two for their time, Peter got up to leave but was stopped just as he reached the door.  
“So, can we go?” Mr Jackson asked, rising to his feet.  
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been asked by the Home Office to keep you both in custody for the time being.”  
“What on earth for!”  
“On what charge?!”  
They both cried, taking a step forward.  
“I’m sorry, but it’s not my call. Someone from the Home Office, will be here for you shortly.” Ignoring their astonished looks, Dimmock left the room, leaving the young man’s two parents completely dumbstruck and no doubt wondering what the hell their son had gotten them all into. He picked up his coat and grabbed his car keys, dragging a young sergeant along behind him. He had a new suspect to interview, at Pentonville Prison.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, he hadn’t bothered to keep track. The pain in his legs and chest had eased slightly, but not enough to make any real change to his comfort level. As far as he could tell, John was still unconscious; he could hear the man grunt and groan in his sleep. Lestrade on the other hand, was completely silent, except for the persistent scraping. Even though he was still in a great deal of pain and discomfort, it felt good to be in such close proximity to his two friends. He knew that deep down it made no difference; they would come for him regardless. Still, it felt easier somehow, not being alone, and for that he was grateful. 

It was sometime later, when he first heard the footsteps. Two separate sets, moving swiftly towards them. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he felt his heart race; surely it couldn’t be morning already. The sound of scrapping suddenly stopped and in less than a second, the inspector appeared beside him, sliding the metal blade beneath the mattress edge. The two locked eyes and stared at each other for a moment, both reading the fear on the others face but neither wanting to admit it. Lestrade sunk back into the space between both him and the sleeping doctor and waited for the two men to arrive. Sherlock felt a hand gently touch his arm, but he was too focused on the doorway to appreciate the gesture.  
He felt his breathing quicken, as both Frank and Craig appeared at the doorway. Stabbing pains coursed through his chest as the panic started to take over. He didn’t want to go with them again. He didn’t know how much more he could take. The thought of being put on that table again made his stomach drop, forcing a painful tremor to pass through him. The grip on his arm tightened.  
“Stand up!” Frank growled through the bars, holding a gun up at the Inspector. Lestrade gave him one final look; his eyes filled with guilt and sorrow.  
“I’m sorry,” the Inspector whispered mournfully, giving his arm one final squeeze before releasing his grip and slowly getting to his feet. He wasn’t sure why, but Sherlock couldn’t help but feel colder by the man’s sudden absence.  
“Move over there by the wall!” Frank commanded, and he was forced to watch helplessly as the Inspector limped over to the far wall, well out of reach.  
“What’s the matter with him?” Craig asked curiously, motioning down at John. Lestrade’s eye’s narrowed, his teeth clenched in anger.  
“He’s unconscious, no thanks to you.”  
The two men shared an amused look, before Craig shrugged and Frank smiled.  
“Well that makes things a little easier.”

In less than a second, Frank had raised his gun at Lestrade and a loud shot echoed throughout the small room. John came to with a start, while Sherlock felt his breath catch painfully in his chest. A look of shock and horror crossed Lestrade’s face before he crumbled backwards, hitting the wall and sliding to the ground, a bright red patch appearing around his stomach. The Inspector’s face twisted in agony as a horrible sound escaped his lips.  
“Lestrade!” he choked out hopelessly, as the Inspector slowly bled out, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he tried to stem the blood flow with his shaking hands.  
“What’s going on?” John asked thickly, eyes wide in panic as he caught side of their bleeding friend.  
“Greg?!”

Sherlock’s breathing was out of control, his mind was a blur. This wasn’t supposed to happen; they were supposed to come for him! It was hard enough watching them hurt his friends the first time; he couldn’t do this again…  
He felt Craig drag him into an upright position, just as he watched Frank do the same with John. The two were forced to look at each other while Lestrade withered on the ground behind them. Sherlock could see the confusion and panic in John’s eyes, as his best friend asked him what was happening. He couldn’t say anything; only utter a pathetic whine, as he saw the blade appear at the doctor’s neck. He felt Craig’s warm breath on his face as the man whispered in his ear.  
“What do you have to say now?”  
He felt himself tremble, his eyes fill with tears as he desperately shook his head. “Please don’t, I’ll… I’ll tell you everything.”  
“It’s too late for that. The web is closing in and they’ve outlived their stay.”  
John’s eye’s widened in shock as the blade dug in and tore its way across his throat. 

Sherlock felt his best friend’s warm blood, spray over his face, as the deep red line grew longer. He cried out in alarm and lunged forward, seeking the tool he knew was nearby. Hand to metal, he tightly gripped the silver scalpel and swung wildly behind him. With a loud cry, the hands released him and he lunged toward Frank who pushed the motionless doctor into his path. John’s dead weight landed heavily on top of him, as more of his friend’s life force rained down. Pushing out from underneath him, Sherlock desperately turned his best friend on to his back and pushed his hands against the deep cut, hoping to somehow stop the catastrophic flow.  
He looked down into his housemate’s face, willing him to hold on; but John’s eyes were vacant, his pupils fixed and dilated.  
“John?”  
His whole body felt numb, so much so, he didn’t feel himself get wrestled to the ground, the scalpel pulled easily from his hand. All he could see was the body of his best friend, lying dead in front of him, the floor covered in his precious blood.  
“John?” he called again, as if just by wishing it so, he could grant the man a second chance.  
“Fucking asshole!” Craig growled angrily, wrapping his bloodied hand in his shirt, before dragging him away from John’s side. He felt his panic rise as he lost sight of his best friend. He couldn’t leave him now, it couldn’t end like that.  
He was dragged over to where Lestrade lay dying and was forced to watch as Frank waved the blood-soaked knife back and forward in front of the Inspector’s face, laughing like a maniac.  
“Time to gut you like the pig you are.”  
Lestrade turned to face him, his face a mix of emotion. Sherlock tried to pull free but was held firmly in place by Craig’s fierce grip, his angry voice snarling.  
“No way you little fucktard, you’re gonna watch every second!”

The tears came streaming down his face as the blade entered the Inspector’s lower abdomen.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but the sounds were drowned out by Lestrade’s screams, as Frank dragged the knife upwards towards the man’s ribcage. At some point the screams died and Sherlock felt despair unlike anything else he had ever experienced. His tears mixed with John’s blood as they ran freely down his face. He could taste the salty, metallic liquid on his lips and it made him sick.  
Choking back the heavily sobs, he watched as Frank eventually removed the knife and stood up triumphantly. Lestrade’s blood covered most of the man’s arms and shirt; his stomach lay open on the ground while his body struggled to hold on. 

Sherlock felt Craig’s arms release him and he crawled towards the dying man, sobbing loudly. Looking down at his friend’s chest, he didn’t even know where to start. There had been so many things he wanted to say to the man, things he deserved to know but would never hear.  
“Greg, I’m sorry.” he whispered, his face screwed up in this new agony. It wasn’t supposed to end this way, he almost had them out.  
He felt his friend’s body tremble as it clung to what little life it had left. He looked up into his pale face, just in time to see a large hole appear in the inspector’s forehead as another shot rang out behind him. Lestrade’s body fell silent and still as he was finally put out of his misery.  
Sherlock stared in shock, his body shaking with emotion, his body racked with pain and guilt. He heard the sound of a gun cocking behind him, felt the cold hard metal press against the back of his head.  
“Sherlock!”

He came to with a start, his heart racing wildly and his eyes filled with tears. Looking around in a panic, the first thing he saw was Lestrade’s wide eyes, staring down at him in concern.  
“Shhhh, you’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”  
The breath caught in his chest as he quickly took in the man’s appearance. No blood, no bullet wound, the Inspector was fine. He allowed his head to flop back to the mattress in relief as he closed his eyes and tried to settle himself down, chest screaming in pain.  
It was just a dream. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep.  
“You’re okay, just breathe… are you with me?”  
He opened his eyes again and looked over in John’s direction. He knew what he would see and yet, his panicked mind needed confirmation. The man was just how he remembered, lying fast asleep on his back, body limp and trembling. Sherlock looked back at the worried Inspector who gave him a small smile. He had never been so happy to see him in his life.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
Sherlock‘s head flinched, as another cry escaped his swollen lips. It was the sound of pure panic, of complete terror, and it left Greg feeling hollow inside. John had told him what had happened to their friend whilst at the mercy of their captors, so he could only imagine what the detective was dreaming about. He felt powerless to help and could do little more than watch, as Sherlock’s usually expressive hands twitched uncontrollably by his side.  
“You’re okay Sherlock, we’re here,” he muttered softly, running a gentle hand through his friend’s matted hair. “You’re safe; no one’s trying to hurt you.”  
Oblivious to his words, the detective responded with a truly heartbreaking sound. Reaching out a comforting hand, he felt a violent tremor run through his young friend’s body as the whimpering sobs continued. It didn’t take long before Greg’s feelings of sympathy turned to that of concern as Sherlock’s chest began to heave, the forced air gurgling softly in his chest.  
“Sherlock, wake up.”  
He squeezed the man’s arm and gave it a slight shake, but it was not enough to pull Sherlock from his disturbing dream. Within a matter of minutes, the detective’s breathing had become so fast, he was hyperventilating. When Greg saw the first tear, roll down his young friend’s face he couldn’t take it anymore and shook the detective’s shoulder with a new found urgently.  
“Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his breathing fast and uneven. In all the years he had known the detective, Greg couldn’t say he had ever seen Sherlock look scared before. That was until now. Eyes wide and bloodshot, the man looked frantically around the room as if trying to convince himself of his whereabouts. He felt sick.  
“Shhhh, you’re okay Sherlock, it was just a nightmare.”  
He hated seeing his two friends in such a bad way, and their nightmares only made it worse. It reminded him of what was to come, the next time he closed his own eyes… _One more reason to stay awake._

Eventually, a look of recognition returned to Sherlock’s face and Lestrade gave him a small smile, knowing he could offer little else in terms of any real assistance. In truth, he could do nothing other than sit with his friend and wait until he calmed down. It wasn’t on his list, but he would make an exception.  
“You’re okay, just breathe… are you with me?”  
After several seconds, Sherlock’s confused and panicked face, began to morph back into the pain filled one he had become so accustomed to. The man’s breathing levelled out and it wasn’t long before Sherlock’s gasps had turned to coughs, and the young detective was struggling to breathe.  
“Help me up,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he tried to pull himself upright, his face scrunching in agony as the movement put pressure on his broken ribs. With a bit of shuffling, Lestrade was able to prop the detective up so he was resting with his shredded back against the wall, his legs spread uselessly out in front of him. It took a few minutes but eventually, Sherlock was able to breathe a little easier, his chest appearing to cause him less pain. The detective’s eyebrows were still furrowed and his forehead still creased but he grunted less often and he coughed a lot less.  
“Are you okay?”  
The look Sherlock gave him would have been comical in any other situation; however it just reinforced how not okay, the man really was. “Yeah… right, sorry. How are you feeling?” he tried, but Sherlock remained quiet, looking silently over towards John’s shuddering body. 

Noticing the detective’s gaze, he too took a quick moment to stare at the doctor’s pale face.  
“He’s going to be alright you know,” he said quietly, trying to reassure himself just as much as he was his friend, but again the detective remained quiet.  
With nothing else left to do, Greg gently tucked his coat around Sherlock’s chest and got back to work on the scalpel. It was only after a few scrapes that he thought he heard a whisper. Looking over to his right, he could see John still fast asleep, which meant only one thing.  
“What did you say?” he asked, turning to the detective.  
“I said, I’m sorry.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and Greg felt goose bumps sprout on his bare arms. Taken aback, he looked carefully at his friend, thoroughly confused. “Sorry for what?”  
He watched as Sherlock’s eyes shifted to look beyond him to John and to what seemed like the back wall, before the detective sighed and turned his face away staring at the empty space in front of him.  
“Doesssn’t matt’r.”

Greg spent the next few minutes in awkward silence, before slowly getting to his feet and limping his way over to the metal bars. Checking the width of the scalpel in the remaining two screws, he found it about a millimetre too thick. He was so close to freedom now, he could almost taste it. Finding it difficult to control his excitement, he sunk to the floor and scratched furiously away at the metal, stopping only for a short moment to wrap another strip of fabric around his bloodied knuckles. In fact, Lestrade became so focused on the task at hand, that he had almost forgotten about Sherlock, who had taken to silently watching him, as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It therefore came as a bit of a shock, when he heard the detective call out to him, his voice tired and strained.  
“What happen’d to your leg?”  
“Hmmm?” he mumbled questioningly, before glancing down at the blood-stained bandage. “Oh that… it’s nothing.”  
It wasn’t a complete lie. It wasn’t as though the injury was life threatening or anything, in many ways it was just a bad scratch. “I’m fine.”  
At that moment, Sherlock appeared to get lost in thought. His eyes turned vacant and then slowly closed as he slipped away from the waking world.  
Greg couldn’t help but feel thankful; he didn’t want to worry the detective with such a trivial matter as his leg and with any luck, his friend would have forgotten about it the next time he woke. He was almost finished, he didn’t need an extra distraction.  
With a new burst of energy, he got back to work. _Not long to go now._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Sherlock -***  
Sherlock took a step forward and crouched down, peering intently at the small hole in the wall. It had been caused by a small calibre bullet and by the rate of impact, had been fired by only a few meters away. Standing up, he took another look around the room surveying the frozen scene in front of him. John’s unconscious form lay in the middle of the room in front of him, his face pale and sweaty with a high fever. His own twisted and bloody body lay in a heap on the mattress, while Lestrade stood unsteadily by the window, his weight favoured to one side.  
The Inspector was looking down at the blood-stained bandage covering his lower thigh, trying to hide the small patch of blood, pooled on the floor behind him.  
It hadn’t taken long for him to deduce that Lestrade had been shot. The small, blood caked bullet sitting by the sink was the main giveaway, however even without such a glaring piece of evidence, it didn’t require a genius to work out that something was wrong.  
“Well that makes things problematic.”  
Sherlock jerked around in surprise, annoyed at the unwelcomed interruption.  
“What are you doing here?” he said with a sneer, turning to face his imaginary brother.  
“I believe the bigger question is, what now?”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice, that Detective Inspector Lestrade here, has a large bullet wound to his leg.”  
Sherlock scoffed in annoyance and took a few steps closer to his frozen friend.  
“Hardly; look at the way he’s standing, he can still bear weight. The amount of blood is only small and the bullet impacted the wall. It must have just clipped him,” he said glaring up at his brother. “He’ll be fine.”  
“Oh, it’s not him I’m thinking about,” Mycroft said cryptically, casually stepping out from the wall. “It looks like you may have to help.”  
“I can’t help them,” he said angrily, rounding back on his smug looking brother. “I can’t even help myself!”  
“Of course you can, you just don’t want to.”  
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked testily. Mycroft sighed, his head falling into his hand dramatically.  
“Don’t be stupid Sherlock. Think.”  
“Where the hell are you anyway?” He asked in a fury, fists clenched by his side. “You should have had us out days ago! What the hell have you been doing?!”  
“I have been trying to track down a man who could single handily take down one of the main terrorist cells working out of this country. It is hardly my fault you allowed yourself to be captured so… easily.”  
“And yet in three days you have yet to find us or your informer. Not exactly your best work, is it?”  
“Yes well, I hate to say it, but things are proving more challenging than expected.”  
“And who exactly are you taking about? Us or your informant? Are you even looking for me?”  
“It hardly matters Sherlock, I’m not really here, in case you’ve forgotten. This whole conversation is taking place inside your head.”

With a frustrated growl, Sherlock shook the image away and slowly emerged from his badly damaged mind palace, into his cold and brutal reality. Slowly opening his eyes, he tried to ignore the wave of pain which suddenly flooded his system. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The only thing keeping his mind off his raw back, was the shooting pain in his chest; and the only thing keeping his mind off his chest was the constant fire in his legs. He swallowed back a moan and slowly turned his head, watching as Lestrade stood back up and tried to fit the metal tool into place. The Inspector had been working by the window for some time now, slowly adjusting the width and angle of the metal tip. The man was down to the finishing touches, and judging by his excited face, would be finished very soon. The thought made him both excited and anxious - hopefully it would be more successful than their last attempt at the screwdriver idea.  
A minute or two later and Lestrade turned to him with a giant smile on his face.  
“It fits!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***- Lestrade -***  
The excitement was almost overwhelming. Hours upon hours of blood, sweat and tears had gone into making the damn thing and now that it was finally finished, he felt ready to burst. There was so much ridding on the tool’s success; he didn’t want to think about what might happen if it didn’t work. They couldn’t afford for it not to. _It would work!_  
Lestrade wasted no time at all, throwing all his weight behind the small instrument, his arms and shoulders trembled with the effort. When after a couple of minutes, he had made no progress, he felt himself start to fall into a deep depression. Frustration quickly turned to anger and despair, as he growled furiously at the wall.  
“What’s the probl’m?”  
The jumbled words caught him off guard and he quickly turned around to Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze. He thought about lying, but decided that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind.  
“It’s not working!” he said, looking down to inspect his bleeding hand. “It won’t stop twisting and the blade keeps slicing into me.”

He could feel the panic returning. This was not a problem he had foreseen, it was not on his list. He seized another piece of fabric, wrapping it tightly around his hand, all the while, trying to hold back the tears which were threatening to make a spectacular return.  
“Why don’t you… make a ha… handle?”  
Lestrade felt himself freeze, his head snapping up in interest.  
“Sorry?”  
“You haf band’ges, rags… tape ‘nd plastic…” Sherlock mumbled with a very definite slur. “Why don’t you… mak’a handle?”  
He looked thoughtfully down at the metal instrument in his hand, the panic gradually draining away. He glanced back at Sherlock gratefully before giving a slight shrug, “it’s worth a try.” 

Gathering the small number of supplies he had, Greg took his place between his two friends and started to play around with the various materials, puzzling over how best to tackle this new problem. Though not something he had originally considered, it still fell into number 3 on his list. With his mind once again focused, he quickly got back to work. This time, he knew it would work.


End file.
